LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


THH  BOOKS  OF 

CHARLES  E.  VAN  LOAN 

Memorial  Edition 

OLD  MAN  CURRY 

STORIES  OF  THE  RACE  TRACK 

WITH  INTRODUCTION  BY 

L.  B.  YATES 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 

BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1915-6,  BY  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON,  INCORPORATED 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


My  Dear  "Purdue"  McConnick:— 

It  is  customary  to  dedicate  a  book,  the  author  selecting  a 
good  natured  person  to  stand  sponsor  for  his  work.  There 
are  100,000,000  people  in  this  country,  and  I  have  selected  you 
as  Old  Man  Curry's  godfather.  When  you  reflect  upon  this 
statistical  statement,  the  size  of  the  compliment  should  impress 
you. 

Then  too,  you  love  a  good  horse — I  have  often  heard  you 
say  so.  You  love  a  good  horse  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  you 
once  harnessed  Colonel  Jack  Chinn's  thoroughbred  saddle 
animal  to  a  trap,  the  subsequent  events  producing  a  better 
story  than  any  you  will  find  in  these  pages.  Nevertheless, 
my  dear  sir,  they  are  respectfully,  even  firmly  dedicated  to 
you. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

CHARLES  E.  VAN  LOAN 
To  E.  O.  McCormick, 
San  Francisco,  Cal. 


INTEODUCTION 

BY  L.  B.  YATES 


IT  is  one  of  life's  tragedies  that  as  we  go 
along  we  realize  the  changes  that  come  upon 
almost  everything  with  which  we  used  to  be 
associated.  And  this  is  noticeable  not  only  in 
ordinary  affairs,  whether  it  be  in  business  or  in 
the  home,  but  it  obtrudes  itself  upon  the  sports 
or  pastimes  which  we  most  affected  in  the  days 
when  some  of  us  had  more  time  or  a  greater 
predilection  to  indulge  in  them. 

We  so  often  go  back  to  an  old  stamping 
ground  expecting  to  find  old  friends  or  to  meet 
the  characters  which  to  a  great  extent  added  to 
the  charm  of  local  coloring,  and  nothing  disap- 
points us  more  than  to  find  that  they  have  all 
[either  gone  the  way  of  the  earth  or  changed 
!  their  manner  of  living  and  habitat. 

I  think  this  is  brought  more  forcibly  to  mind 
when  we  view  the  turf  activities  of  an  earlier 
generation  as  compared  with  those  more  mod- 
ern, because  nowadays  the  game  is  played  dif- 
ferently all  around  and  doesn't  look  the  same 
from  the  viewpoint  of  one  who  loved  the  spec- 

[vii] 


INTRODUCTION 


tacular  and  quaint  figures  that  so  distinguished 
what  we  might  call  the  Victorian  Era  of  Ameri- 
can racing. 

The  sport  of  emperors  has  to  a  great  extent 
become  the  pastime  of  King  Moneybags.  And 
there  is  no  place  for  ancient  crusaders  like  Old 
Man  Curry,  so  he  has  taken  the  remnants  of  his 
stable  and  gone  back  to  the  farm  or  merged  into 
the  humdrum  and  neutral  tinted  landscape 
which  always  designates  the  conventional  and 
ordinary. 

He  doesn't  fit  in  any  more.  The  cost  of  main- 
taining a  racing  stable  is  almost  ten  times 
greater  than  it  was  in  the  days  when  he  and  his 
kind  went  up  and  down  the  country  making  the 
great  adventure.  Eacing  has  been  systematized 
and  ticketed  and  labeled  in  such  a  way  that  it 
is  only  very  rich  men  who  can  afford  to  indulge 
in  it.  The  tracks  west  of  Louisville  are  all 
closed.  The  skeleton  hand  of  the  gloom  dis- 
tributor has  put  padlocks  on  the  gates.  Even 
if  Old  Man  Curry  was  with  us  to-day,  his 
sphere  of  action  would  be  limited,  unless  he 
elected  to  play  a  game  where  the  odds  would 
be  so  immeasurably  against  him  that  he  would 
be  beaten  long  before  he  started. 

So  it  is  that  when  Charlie  Van  Loan  went 
away,  he  bequeathed  to  us  the  records  of  a  pe- 
culiar nomadic  people  which  are  now  almost 
like  the  argonauts  and  whose  manner  of  living 
and  happy-go-lucky  ways  are  but  a  memory.  It 
is  strange  that  although  the  turf  has  always 
[viii] 


INTRODUCTION 


formed  a  prolific  medium  for  writing  people 
and  has  lent  itself  admirably  to  fiction,  very  few 
authors  seem  to  have  taken  advantage  of  the 
opportunities  offered. 

As  in  other  branches  of  sport,  Van  Loan  was 
quick  to  see  this  and  he  gave  us  story  after 
story  of  the  kind  that  men  love  to  read  and 
chuckle  over  and  retail  to  the  first  man  they 
meet.  And  so  when  you  peruse  the  pages  of 
Old  Man  Curry 's  book,  you  will  find  Charlie 
Van  Loan  at  his  very  best.  When  one  says 
that  it  means  that  you  will  follow  a  trail  blazed 
by  one  of  the  most  masterly  short  story  writers* 
we  ever  had.  Better  yet,  he  writes  about  real 
people  and  they  do  real  believable  things.  You 
are  not  asked  to  stretch  your  imagination  or 
endeavor  to  form  an  excuse  for  the  happening 
as  portrayed.  You  will  find  it  all  logical  and 
you  will  be  able  to  follow  the  old  man  and  the 
biblically  named  horses  from  track  to  track  and 
from  adventure  to  adventure,  until  you  finally 
lay  the  book  aside  and  tell  yourself  what  a  bully 
time  you  had  reading  it  and  how  humorous  and 
human  and  wholly  entertaining  every  page  of 
it  was. 

And  to  all  this  I  might  perhaps  add  some- 
thing of  my  regard  for  the  Charlie  Van  Loan  I 
knew  and  how  we  foregathered  and  enjoyed  the 
old  days  when  we  were  brother  carpenters  on  a 
western  newspaper,  and  how  out  of  the  close 
association  of  many  years  I  formed  an  affec- 
tionate regard  for  him  and  realized  how 

[ix] 


INTRODUCTION 


thoughtful  and  kindly  and  big  in  heart  and 
brain  he  really  was.  But  in  life  he  was  not  the 
kind  that  sought  or  cared  for  adulation  or  ful- 
some expression  of  regard  either  spoken  or 
written.  So  I  had  better  hark  back  to  the  nar- 
ratives of  Old  Man  Curry  and  his  connections, 
bidding  you  enjoy  them  to  the  limit,  and  assur- 
ing you  that  they  need  no  eulogy  from  me  or 
any  one  else.  They  speak  for  themselves. 


CONTENTS 

FAGS 

LEVELLING  WITH  ELISHA .    •    •    •  13 

PLAYING  EVEN  FOR  OBADIAH    .........  &5 

BY  A  HAIR •    •  68 

THE  LAST  CHANCE •  99 

SANGUINARY  JEREMIAH    ....•..:,-.«••  128 

ELIPHAZ,  LATE  FAIRFAX 150 

THE  REDEMPTION  HANDICAP 175 

A  MORNING  WORKOUT .    .    .    .  188 

EGYPTIAN  CORN 223 

THE  MODERN  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON    ......  247 


OLD  MAN  CURRY 


LEVELLING  WITH  ELISHA 


THE    Bald-faced   Kid    shivered    as   lie 
roosted  on  the  paddock  fence,  for  the 
dawn  was  raw  and  cold  and  his  over- 
coat was  hanging  in  the  back  room  of  a 
pawnbroker's  establishment  some  two  hundred 
miles  away.    Circumstances  which  he  had  un- 
successfully endeavoured  to  control  made  it  a 
question  of  the  overcoat  or  the  old-fashioned 
silver  stop  watch.     The  choice  was  not  a  dif- 
ficult one.    '  '  I  can  get  along  without  the  benny,  * ' 
reflected  the  Kid,  "because  I'm  naturally  warm- 
blooded, but  take  away  my  old  white  kettle  and 
I'm  a  soldier  gone  to  war  without  his  gun." 

In  the  language  of  the  tack  rooms,  the  Bald- 
£aced  Kid  was  a  hustler — a  free  lance  of  the 
turf,  playing  a  lone  hand  against  owner  and 
bookmaker,  matching  his  wits  against  secret 
combinations  and  operating  upon  the  wheedled 
capital  of  the  credulous.  He  was  sometime^ 
called  a  tout,  but  this  he  resented  bitterly,  ex- 
plaining the  difference  between  a  tout  and  a 
hustler.  "A  tout  will  have  six  suckers  betting 
on  six  different  horses  in  the  same  race.  Five 

[13] 


OLD   MAN    CURKY 


of  'em  have  got  to  lose.  A  tout  is  guessing  all 
the  time,  but  a  hustler  is  likely  to  know  some- 
thing. One  horse  a  race  is  my  motto — some- 
times only  one  horse  a  day,  but  I  Ve  got  to  know 
something  before  I  lead  the  sucker  into  the  bet- 
ting ring.  .  .  .  "What  is  a  sucker  1  Huh !  He 's 
a  foolish  party  who  bets  money  for  a  wise  boy 
because  the  wise  boy  never  has  any  money  to 
bet  for  himself!" 

Picking  winners  was  the  serious  business  of 
the  Kid's  life,  hence  the  early  morning  hours 
and  the  careful  scrutiny  of  the  daybreak  work- 
outs. 

Bitter  experience  had  taught  the  Kid  the  er- 
ror of  trusting  men,  but  up  to  a  certain  point 
he  trusted  horses.  He  depended  upon  his  sil- 
ver stop  watch  to  divide  the  thoroughbreds  into 
two  classes — those  which  were  short  of  work 
and  those  which  were  ready.  The  former  he 
eliminated  as  unfit ;  the  latter  he  ceased  to  trust, 
for  the  horse  which  is  ready  becomes  a  betting 
tool,  at  the  mercy  of  the  bookmaker,  the  owner, 
and  the  strong-armed  little  jockey. 

"Which  one  are  they  going  to  bet  on  to- 
day ? ' '  was  the  Kid 's  eternal  question.  ' l  Which 
one  is  going  to  carry  the  checks?" 

Across  the  track,  dim  in  the  gray  light,  a 
horse  broke  swiftly  from  a  canter  into  the  full 
racing  stride.  Something  clicked  in  the  Kid's 
palm. 

6 '  Got  you ! "  he  muttered. 

His  eye  followed  the  horse  up  the  back  stretcfi 
[14] 


LEVELLING   WITH    ELISHA 


into  the  gloom  of  the  upper  turn  where  the 
flying  figure  was  lost  in  the  deep  shade  of  the 
trees.  One  shadow  detached  itself  from  the 
others  and  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  straight- 
away. The  muffled  thud  of  hoofs  became  au- 
dible, rising  in  swift  crescendo  as  the  shadow 
resolved  itself  into  a  gaunt  bay  horse  with  a 
tiny  negro  boy  crouched  motionless  in  the  sad- 
dle. A  rush,  a  flurry,  a  spatter  of  clods,  a  low- 
flying  drift  of  yellow  dust  and  the  vision  passed, 
but  the  Bald-faced  Kid  had  seen  enough  to  com- 
pensate him  for  the  early  hours  and  the  lack 
of  breakfast.  He  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"Old  Elisha,  under  wraps  and  fighting  for 
his  head,"  was  his  comment.  "The  nigger 
didn't  let  him  out  any  part  of  the  way.  .  .  .  Oh, 
you  prophet  of  Israel!" 

"What  did  that  bird  step  the  three-quarters, 
in  ? "  asked  a  voice,  and  the  Kid  turned  to  con- 
front Squeaking  Henry,  also  a  hustler,  and  at 
times  a  competitor. 

"Dunno;  I  didn't  clock  him,"  lied  the  Kid. 

"That  was  Old  Man  Curry's  nigger  Mose," 
continued  Squeaking  Henry,  so-called  because 
of  his  plaintive  whine,  "and  I  was  wondering 
if  the  horse  wasn't  Elijah.  I  didn't  get  a  good 
look  at  him.  Maybe  it  was  Obadiah  or  Nehe- 
miah.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  lot  of  names  in 
your  life  ?  They  tell  me  Old  Man  Curry  got  'em 
all  out  of  the  Bible."  The  Kid  nodded.  "Bible 
horses  are  in  fine  company  at  this  track," 
chuckled  Squeaking  Henry.  "I  been  here  a 

[15] 


OLD    MAN    CUKKY 


week  now,  and  darned  if  I  can  get  onto  the 
angles.  I  guess  Old  Man  Curry  is  the  only 
owner  here  who  ain't  doin'  business  with  some 
bookmaker  or  other.  Look  at  that  King  Wil- 
liam bird  yesterday!  He  was  twenty  pounds 
the  best  in  the  race  and  he  come  fifth.  The  jock 
did  everything  to  him  but  cut  his  throat.  What 
are  you  goin'  to  do  when  they  run  'em  in  and 
out  like  that!  .  .  .  Say,  Kid,  was  that  Elijah 
or  was  it  another  one  of  them  Bible  beetles?  I 
didn't  get  a  good  look  at  him." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  stole  a  sidelong  glance 
at  Squeaking  Henry. 

"Neither  did  I,"  said  he.  "Why  don't  you 
ask  Old  Man  Curry  which  horse  it  was?  He'd 
tell  you.  He 's  just  foolish  enough  to  do  it. ' ' 

Halfway  up  the  back  stretch  a  shabby,  elderly 
man  leaned  against  the  fence,  thoughtfully 
chewing  a  straw  as  he  watched  the  little  negro 
check  the  bay  horse  to  a  walk.  He  had  the  flow- 
ing beard  of  a  patriarch,  the  mild  eye  of  a  dea- 
con, the  calm,  untroubled  brow  of  a  philosopher, 
and  his  rusty  black  frock  coat  lent  him  a  cer- 
tain simple  dignity  quite  rare  upon  the  race 
tracks  of  the  Jungle  Circuit.  In  the  tail  pocket 
of  the  coat  was  something  rarer  still — a  well- 
thumbed  Bible,  for  this  was  Old  Man  Curry, 
famous  as  the  owner  of  Isaiah,  Elijah,  Obadiah, 
Esther,  Ezekiel,  Jeremiah,  Elislm,  Nehemiah, 
and  Euth.  In  his  spare  moments  he  read  the 
Psalms  of  David  for  pleasure  in  their  rolling 
cadences  and  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon  for 

[16] 


LEVELLING  WITH    ELISHA 


profit  in  their  wisdom,  which  habit  alone  was 
sufficient  to  earn  for  him  a  reputation  for  ec- 
centricity. 

Old  Man  Curry  clinched  this  general  opinion 
by  entering  into  no  entangling  alliances  with 
brother  owners,  and  the  bookmaker  did  not  live 
who  could  call  him  friend.  He  attended  strictly 
to  his  own  business,  which  was  training  horses 
and  racing  them  to  win,  and  while  he  did  not 
swear,  drink  liquor,  or  smoke,  he  proved  he 
was  no  Puritan  by  chewing  fine-cut  tobacco  and 
betting  on  his  horses  when  he  thought  they  had 
a  chance  to  win  and  the  odds  were  to  his  liking. 
For  the  latter  he  claimed  Scriptural  precedent. 

"Wasn't  the  children  of  Israel  commanded 
to  spile  the  Egyptians?"  said  he.  "Wasn't 
they?  Well,  then!  The  way  I  figger  it  times 
has  changed  a  lot  since  then,  but  the  principle's 
the  same.  There 's  some  children  of  Israel  mak- 
ing book  'round  here  that  need  to  be  spiled  a 
heap  worse 'n  Pharaoh  ever  did."  Then,  after 
thought :  *  *  But  you  got  to  go  some  to  spile  bad 
eggs. ' '  As  the  little  negro  drew  near,  the  black- 
ness of  his  visage  was  illuminated  by  a  sudden 
flash  of  ivory.  Elisha  snorted  and  shook  his 
head  from  side  to  side.  Old  Man  Curry  stepped 
forward  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  bridle. 

"Well,  Mose?"  said  he.  The  small  rider 
gurgled  as  he  slipped  from  the  saddle : 

"Nothin'  to  it,  nothin'  to  it  a-a-atall.  'Is 
'Lisha  bird,  he's  ready  to  fly.  Yes,  suh,  he's 

[17] 


OLD    MAN    CUKKY 


prepaihed  to  show  all  'em  otlieh  hawsses  which 
way  'is  track  runs ! ' ' 

"Went  good,  did  he,  Mose!" 

"Good!  He  like  to  pull  my  ahms  off,  'at's 
how  good  he  went !  Yes,  suh,  he  was  jus'  buck- 
jumpin'  all  ?e  way  down  'at  stretch.  'Ey  kin 
all  be  in  front  of  him  tuhnin'  fo'  to-morreh,  an' 
he'll  go  by  'em  so  fas'  'ey  won't  know  which 
way  he  went ! ' ' 

Old  Man  Curry  nodded.  "Elisha  ain't  no 
front  runner, ' '  said  he.  * '  He 's  like  his  daddy — 
does  all  his  running  in  the  last  quarter.  He 
comes  from  behind." 

"Sure  does!"  chirped  Mose.  "All  I  got  to 
do  is  fetch  him  into  'e  stretch,  swing  wide  so 
he  got  plenty  of  room  to  ambulate  hisse'f,  boot 
him  once  in  'e  slats,  an' — good  night  an'  good- 
by!  01'  'Lisha  jus'  tip  his  to  'em  otheh  haws- 
ses  an'  say:  '  'Scuse  me,  gen'elmen  an'  ladies, 
but  I  got  mos'  uhgent  business  down  yondeh 
'bout  quahteh  of  a  mile ;  'em  judges  waitin'  faw 
me.'  'At's  whut  he  say,  boss.  Nothin'  to  it 
a-a-atall." 

"Give  him  plenty  of  room,  Mose." 

"Sutny  will.  Won't  git  me  nothin'  stickin' 
on  'at  rail.  'Em  white  bu'glahs  don't  seem  to 
crave  me  nohow,  no  time ;  'ey  jus '  be  tickled  to 
death  to  put  me  an'  'Lisha  oveh  'e  fence  if  we 
git  clost  'nough  to  it.  Yes,  indeed;  I  'low  to 
give  'is  hawss  all  'e  room  whut  is  on  a  race 
track!" 

Old  Man  Curry  led  Elisha  toward  his  barn, 
[18] 


LEVELLING   WITH    ELISHA 


the  little  negro  trailing  behind,  addressing  the 
horse  in  terms  of  endearment.  "You  ol'  wolf, 
on'iest  way  to  beat  you  to-morreh  is  to  saw  all 
yo'  laigs  off.  You  as  full  of  run  as  a  hydrant, 
'at's  whut  you  are,  ain't  you,  'Lisha?" 

Two  horsemen  were  standing  in  the  door  of 
a  feed  room  as  the  queer  procession  passed. 
They  interrupted  a  low-toned  conversation  to 
exchange  significant  glances.  "Speak  of  the 
devil, ' '  said  one,  ' '  and  there  he  goes  now.  Been 
working  that  horse  for  the  last  race  to-mor- 
row." 

"It  won't  get  him  anything,"  said  the  other. 
"You  can  forget  that  he's  entered." 

The  first  speaker  was  short  and  stout,  with 
no  personal  beauty  to  be  marred  by  the  knife 
scar  which  ran  from  the  lobe  of  his  left  ear  to 
the  point  of  his  chin,  a  broad,  red  welt  in  the 
blackish  stubble  of  his  beard.  This  was  Martin 
O'Connor,  owner  of  the  Sunrise  racing  stable, 
sometimes  known  as  Grouchy  O'Connor. 

His  companion  was  a  smooth-faced,  dapper, 
gold-toothed  blond,  apparently  not  more  than 
twenty-five  years  of  age.  Innocence  circled  his 
sleek  towhead  like  a  halo ;  good  cheer  radiated 
from  him  in  ceaseless  waves.  His  glance  was 
direct  and  compelling  and  his  smile  invited  con- 
fidences; he  seemed  almost  too  young  and  en- 
tirely too  artless  for  his  surroundings.  The 
average  observer  would  have  pitied  him  for  a 
lamb  among  wolves,  and  the  pity  would  have 
been  misplaced,  for  Al  Engle  was  older  than  he 

[19]  • 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


looked  by  several  sinful  semesters  and  infinitely 
wiso^  than  lie  had  any  honest  right  to  be.  His 
franK,  ooyish  countenance  was  at  once  a  cloak 
and  an  asset;  it  had  beguiled  many  a  man  to 
his  financial  hurt.  He  was  shrewd,  intelligent, 
unscrupulous,  and  acquisitive;  the  dangerous 
head  of  a  small  clique  of  horse  owners  which 
was  doing  its  bad  best  to  remove  the  element  of 
chance  from  the  sport  of  kings.  In  his  touting 
days  he  had  been  given  the  name  of  the  Sharp- 
shooter and  in  his  prosperity  it  clung  to  him. 

"Forget  that  he's  entered,  eh?"  repeated 
O'Connor.  "Elisha — Elisha — I  don't  seem  to 
place  that  horse." 

"His  name  used  to  be  Silver  Star,"  said  the 
Sharpshooter. 

"That  dog?"  said  O'Connor,  disgustedly. 
"Let's  see;  wasn't  he  at  Butte  last  season?" 

"Yes.    Cricket  Caley  owned  him." 

"The  little  old  jock  that  died  last  spring?" 

"Same  one.  This  horse  Silver  Star  was  all 
he  had  and  Cricket  used  to  ride  him  himself. 
Eank  quitter.  I've  seen  Caley  boot  and  kick 
and  slash  this  bird  until  he  wore  himself  out; 
he'd  quit  just  the  same.  WojJdn't  run  a  lick 
after  he  got  into  the  stretch1. 

"Then  one  day  Cricket  slipped  him  over  at 
a  long  price.  Don't  know  how  he  did  it.  Hop, 
most  likely.  Got  somebody  to  bet  on  Silver 
Star  at  25  to  1  and  took  quite  a  little  chunk  of 
money  out  of  the  ring.  That  was  Caley 's  last 
race;  he'd  been  cheating  the  undertakers  for 

[20] 


LEVELLING   WITH    ELISHA 


years.  Before  he  died  he  gave  the  horse  to 
Old  Man  Curry.  They'd  been  friends,  ty^if 
a  friend  of  mine  gave  me  a  horse  like  th?ju^nd 
didn't  throw  in  a  dog  collar,  he  couldn't  run 
fast  enough  to  get  away  from  me.  Curry  put 
in  an  application  to  the  Jockey  Club  and  had 
the  name  changed  from  Silver  Star  to  Elisha. 
Won't  have  anything  but  Bible  names,  the  old 
nut! 

1 1  Curry  hasn't  won  with  him  yet,  and  I'd  hate 
to  be  hanging  by  the  neck  until  he  does,  because 
if  ever  there  was  a  no-account  hound  masquer- 
ading with  a  mane  and  tail,  it's  the  one  you  just 
saw  go  by  here.  He  won't  gather  anything  to- 
morrow. Forget  him." 

0  'Connor  hesitated  a  moment ;  he  was  a  cau- 
tious soul.  "  Might  tell  Grogan  and  Merritt  to 
look  after  him,"  he  suggested. 

6 'No  need  to.  And  that  bullet-headed  little 
nigger  wouldn't  like  anything  better  than  a 
chance  to  holler  to  the  judges.  The  horse  ain't 
got  a  chance,  I  tell  you.  Wouldn't  have  with 
the  best  rider  in  the  world.  Forget  him." 

"Well — just  as  you  say,  Al.  Broadsword's 
good  enough  to  beat  him,  I  reckon." 

"Of  course  he  is!  Forget  this  Elisha.  Go 
on  and  figure  just  the  same  as  if  he  wasn't  in 
the  race." 

The  Sharpshooter  and  his  friends,  through 
their  betting  commissioners,  backed  Broad- 
sword from  4  to  1  to  even  money.  The  horse 
was  owned  by  O'Connor  and  ridden  by  Jockey 

[21] 


OLD    MAN    CUKKY 


Grogan.  Bald  Eagle,  Amphion,  and  Kemorse- 
ful  were  supposed  to  be  the  contenders,  but 
their  riders  jogged  blithely  to  the  post  with 
Broadsword  tickets  in  their  bootlegs  and  rid- 
ing orders  of  a  sort  to  make  those  pasteboards 
valuable. 

Jockey  Moseby  Jones,  on  Elisha,  was  over- 
looked when  these  favours  were  surreptitiously 
distributed,  but  his  bootleg  was  not  empty. 
There  was  a  ticket  in  it  which  called  for  twenty- 
two  dollars  in  case  Elisha  won — a  two-dollar 
bet  at  10  to  1.  It  was  put  there  by  Old  Man 
Curry  just  before  the  bugle  blew. 

"  Bring  him  home  in  front,  Mose,"  said  the 
old  man. 

' '  Sutny  will ! ' '  grinned  the  negro.  '  '  You  bet- 
ting much  on  him,  boss?" 

"I  visited  a  while  with  the  children  of  Is- 
rael," said  Curry  gravely.  "Bemember  now 
— lots  of  room  when  you  turn  for  home. ' ' 

"Yes,  suh.  I  won't  git  clost  'nough  to  'em 
scound'els  faw  'em  do  nothin'  but  say  'Heah 
he  comes'  an'  'Yondeh  he  goes.'  Won't  slam 
me  into  no  fence;  I'm  comin'  back  by  ovehland 
route!" 

Later  O  'Connor,  who  had  been  bidden  to  for- 
get Elisha,  remembered  him.  Broadsword  led 
into  the  stretch  by  four  open  lengths,  hugging 
the  rail.  Mose  trailed  the  bunch  around  the 
upper  turn,  brought  Elisha  smartly  to  the  out- 
side, kicked  the  bay  horse  in  the  ribs  with  his 
spurs  and  said: 

[22] 


LEVELLING   WITH    ELISHA 


"Whut  yo'  doin'  heah?  Go  'long  about  yo' 
business!" 

Jockey  Grogan,  already  spending  his  fifty- 
dollar  ticket,  heard  warning  yells  from  the  rear 
and  sat  down  to  ride,  but  it  was  too  late.  Eli- 
sha,  coming  with  a  tremendous  rush,  was  al- 
ready on  even  terms  with  Broadsword.  Three 
strides  and  daylight  showed  between  them.  It 
was  all  over  but  the  shouting,  and  there  was 
very  little  of  that,  for  Elisha  had  few  friends  in 
the  crowd. 

"Hah!"  ejaculated  the  presiding  judge,  tug- 
ging at  his  stubby  grey  moustache.  ' '  Old  Man 
Curry  put  one  over  on  the  boys,  or  I  miss  my 
guess.  Yes,  sir,  he  beat  the  good  thing  and 
spilled  the  beans.  Elisha,  first;  Broadsword, 
second;  that  thing  of  Engle's,  third.  Serves 
>em  right!  Hah!" 

Martin  O'Connor  standing  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  betting  ring,  searching  a  limited  vocabu- 
lary for  language  with  which  to  garnish  his 
emotions,  felt  a  nudge  at  his  elbow.  It  was  the 
Sharpshooter. 

"Go  away  from  me!  Don't  talk  to  me!" 
sputtered  O'Connor.  "You  make  me  sick!  I 
thought  you  said  that  dog  couldn't  run !  You're 
a  swell  prophet,  you  are,  you — you " 

Al  Engie  smiled  as  he  slipped  his  binoculars 
into  the  case.  "I  may  not  be  a  prophet,"  said 
he,  "but  I'll  have  one  in  my  barn  to-night." 

"Huh?" 

6 1  Oh,  nothing,  only  that 's  too  good  a  horse  for 
[23] 


OLD    MAN    CUEKY 


Curry  to  own.  I'm  going  to  take  Elisha  away 
from  him." 

" Going  to  run  him  up?" 

"As  far  as  the  old  man  will  go." 

"  Well,  look  out  you  don't  start  a  selling-race 
war." 

The  Sharpshooter  sneered.  " Curry  hasn't 
got  nerve  enough  to  fight  us, ' '  said  he. 

Now  the  "selling  race"  is  an  institution  de- 
vised and  created  for  the  protection  of  owners 
against  owners,  the  theory  being  to  prevent  the 
running  of  horses  out  of  their  proper  class. 

An  owner,  entering  a  selling  race,  must  set  a 
price  upon  his  horse — let  us  say  five  hundred 
dollars.  Should  the  horse  win,  it  must  be  of- 
fered for  sale  at  that  figure,  the  owner  being 
given  the  right  to  protect  his  property  in  a  bid- 
ding contest. 

In  case  the  animal  changes  hands,  the  origi- 
nal owner  receives  five  hundred  dollars,  and  no 
more.  If  the  horse  has  been  bid  up  to  one  thou- 
sand dollars,  the  racing  association  shares  the 
run-up  with  the  owner  of  the  horse  which  fin- 
ished second.  It  will  readily  be  seen  that  this 
system  discourages  the  practice  of  entering  a 
two-thousand-dollar  horse  in  a  five-hundred- 
dollar  selling  race,  but  it  also  permits  a  dis- 
gruntled owner  to  revenge  himself  upon  a  rival. 
Some  of  the  bitterest  feuds  in  turf  history  have 
grown  out  of  "selling-race  wars." 

Little  Mose  brought  Elisha  back  into  the  ring, 
saluted  the  judges,  and,  dismounting,  began  to 

[24] 


LEVELLING   WITH    ELISHA 


unsaddle.  Old  Man  Curry  came  wandering 
down  the  track  from  the  paddock  gate  where 
he  had  watched  the  race.  He  was  chewing  a 
straw  reflectively,  and  the  tails  of  his  rnsty 
black  frock  coat  flapped  in  the  breeze  like  the 
garment  of  a  scarecrow.  Mose,  with  the  saddle, 
bridle,  blanket,  and  weight  pad  in  his  arms,  dis- 
appeared under  the  judges'  stand  where  the 
clerk  of  the  scales  weighed  him  together  with 
his  tackle. 

The  associate  judge  came  out  on  the  steps  of 
the  pagoda  with  a  programme  in  his  hand.  Mose 
bounced  into  view,  handed  his  tackle  to  Shang- 
hai, Curry's  hostler,  and  started  for  the  jock- 
eys '  room,  singing  to  himself  out  of  sheer  light- 
ness of  heart.  He  knew  what  he  would  do  with 
that  twenty-two-dollar  ticket.  There  was  a  crap 
game  every  night  at  the  O'Connor  stable. 

1  'All  right,  judge!"  called  the  clerk  of  the 
scales.  "  Shoot!" 

The  associate  judge  cleared  his  throat,  nod- 
ded to  Old  Man  Curry,  fingered  his  programme, 
and  began  to  speak  in  a  dull,  slurring  mono- 
tone, droning  out  the  formula  as  prescribed  for 
such  occasions: 

"Elisha — winner  V  this  race — entered  to  be 
sold — four  hundred  dollars Any  bids ! ' ' 

" Five  hundred!" 

Old  Man  Curry,  leaning  against  the  top  rail 
of  the  fence,  started  slightly  and  turned  his 
eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  The  Sharp- 
shooter flashed  his  gold  teeth  at  him  in  a  cheer- 

[25] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


ful  smile.  Old  Man  Curry  shrugged  Ms  shoul- 
ders and  rolled  the  straw  from  one  corner  of 
his  mouth  to  the  other.  The  associate  judge 
looked  at  him,  asking  a  question  with  his  eye- 
brows. There  was  a  stir  in  the  crowd  about  the 
stand.  A  bidding  contest  is  always  an  added  at- 
traction. 

"Friend,  you  don't  want  this  hoss,"  expostu- 
lated Old  Man  Curry,  addressing  Engle.  "He 
ain't  a  race  hoss;  he's  a  trick  hoss.  You  don't 
want  him." 

"What  about  you,  Curry?"  asked  the  asso- 
ciate judge. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  old  man,  slowly.  "And 
five." 

"Six  hundred!" 

Old  Man  Curry  seemed  annoyed.  He  combed 
his  beard  with  his  fingers. 

'Mwdfive,"  said  he. 

"Seven  hundred!" 

Old  Man  Curry  took  time  for  reflection. 
Then  he  sighed  deeply. 

"Maybe  you  want  him  worse 'n  I  do,  friend," 
said  he.  "And  five." 

"Eight  hundred!" 

Old  Man  Curry  smothered  an  impatient  ejac- 
ulation, threw  away  his  straw  and  ransacked 
his  pockets  for  his  packet  of  fine-cut. 

"Might  as  well  make  it  a  good  one  while 
we're  at  it,"  said  he.  "And  five." 

"One  thousand!"  said  the  Sharpshooter,  his 
[26] 


LEVELLING  WITH    ELISHA 


smile  broadening.  "Pretty  fair  price  for  a 
trick  horse,  eh,  Curry?" 

The  old  man  paused  with  a  generous  helping 
of  tobacco  halfway  to  its  destination.  He  re- 
garded Engle  with  unblinking  gravity. 

"  'The  words  of  his  mouth  were  smoother 
than  butter/  he  quoted,  'but  war  was  in  his 
heart.'  That's  from  Psalms,  young  man.  .  .  . 
Now,  it's  this  way  with  a  trick  hoss:  a  lot  de- 
pends on  whether  you  know  the  trick  or  not. 
.  .  .  One  thousand!  .  .  .  Shucks!  Now  I  know 
you  want  him  worse  'n  I  do ! "  Old  Man  Curry 
hoisted  the  tails  of  his  coat,  thrust  his  hands 
into  the  hip  pockets  of  his  trousers,  hunched  his 
shoulders  level  with  his  ears  and  turned  away. 

"You  ain't  quitting,  are  you!"  demanded  the 
Sharpshooter. 

"Friend,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  "I  ain't  even 
started  yet.  It  appears  upon  the  face  of  the  re- 
turns that  you  have  bought  one  big,  red  hoss. 
...  A  trick  hoss.  To  show  you  how  I  feel 
about  it,  I'm  going  to  throw  in  a  bridle  with 
him.  .  .  .  Good-by,  Elisha.  The  Philistines 
have  got  ye  ...  for  a  thousand  dollars." 

It  was  dusk  and  Old  Man  Curry  paced  up  and 
down  under  his  stable  awning,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back  and  his  head  bowed  at  a  medi- 
tative angle.  The  Bald-faced  Kid  recalled  him 
to  earth  by  his  breezy  greeting,  and  what  it 
lacked  in  reverence  it  made  up  in  good  will. 
Old  Man  Curry  and  the  hustler  were  friends, 

[27] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


each  possessing  traits  which  the  other  respect- 
ed. 

"Well,  old-timer,  you  out  airing  your  lace 
curtains  a  little?" 

"Eh?  What?  Oh,  good  evening,  Frank, 
good  evening!  I  been  walking  up  and  down 
some.  You  know  what  it  says  in  Ecclesiastes : 
'In  the  day  of  prosperity  be  joyful,  but  in  the 
day  of  adversity  consider.'  I  been  consider- 
ing." 

"Uh,  huh,"  said  the  Bald-faced  Kid,  falling 
into  step,  "and  you  sure  reached  out  and 
grabbed  some  adversity  in  that  third  race  to- 
day, what  ?  I  had  a  finnif  bet  on  friend  Isaiah — 
my  own  money,  too ;  that 's  how  good  I  thought 
he  was.  They  pretty  near  bumped  the  shoes  off 
him  in  the  back  stretch  and  they  had  him  in  a 
pocket  all  the  way  to  the  paddock  gate,  and 
even  so,  he  was  only  beat  about  the  length  of 
your  nose.  Adversity  is  right!"  Old  Man 
Curry  nodded.  "Say,"  said  the  Kid,  lowering 
his  voice,  "I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that  next 
Tuesday  the  Engle  bunch  will  be  levelling  with 
Elisha." 

Curry  paused  in  his  stride  and  eyed  the 
youth  intently. 

"Who  told  you?"  said  he. 

"Never  you  mind,"  said  the  Kid,  airily. 
"I'm  a  kind  of  a  private  information  bureau 
and  detective  agency  'round  this  track,  and  my 
hours  are  from  twelve  to  twelve,  twice  a  day. 
I  shake  hands  with  the  night  watchman  when 

[28] 


LEVELLING    WITH    ELISHA 


he  comes  on  duty  and  I'm  here  to  give  the 
milkman  the  high  sign  in  the  morning.  They 
tell  me  things  they've  seen  and  heard.  I've  got 
a  drag  with  the  bartenders  and  the  waiters  in 
the  track  cafe  and  the  telegraph  operator  is 
my  pal. 

"Now  Engle  has  had  Elisha  for  two  weeks. 
He's  started  him  three  times  and  Elisha  hasn't 
been  in  the  money  once.  People  are  saying  that 
when  Engle  bought  the  horse  he  didn't  buy  the 
prescription  that  goes  with  him.  .  .  .  Don't  in- 
terrupt me ;  everybody  knows  you  never  had  a 
hop  horse  in  your  barn.  .  .  .  It's  my  notion 
that  Elisha  can  win  any  time  they  get  ready  to 
cut  him  loose  for  the  kopecs.  Engle  has  been 
cheating  with  him  to  get  a  price  and  using  the 
change  of  owners  for  an  alibi.  They  '11  get  their 
price  the  next  time  out  and  clean  up  a  barrel 
of  money.  You  can  gamble  on  this  tip.  It's 
straight  as  gospel." 

"That's  pretty  straight,  son."  Old  Man 
Curry  squared  his  shoulders  and  looked  over 
the  Kid's  head  toward  the  track,  where  the 
empty  grand  stand  loomed  dark  against  the 
evening  sky.  "Next  Tuesday!"  said  he.  "Just 
about  what  I  thought  .  .  .  but  tell  me,  son, 
why  did  you  bring  this  to  me?" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  laughed  harshly. 

"Well,  maybe  it's  because  you're  the  only 
man  'round  here  that  calls  me  Frank — it's  my 
name  and  I  like  to  hear  it  once  in  a  while.  May- 
be it's  because  you  staked  me  once  when  I  was 

[29] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


broke  and  didn't  take  my  right  eye  for  security. 
Maybe  it's  because  I  figure  we  can  both,  get 
something  out  of  it  for  ourselves.  If  Engle  is 
going  to  cut  a  melon,  we  might  as  well  have  a 
knife  in  it  too." 

"  Ah !"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  and  he  paced  the 
entire  length  of  the  barn  before  he  spoke  again. 

'"Well,  you  see,  son,  it's  this  way  about  cut- 
ting a  melon.  You  want  to  be  sure  it  ain't 
green  ...  or  rotten." 

"Huh?" 

Old  Man  Curry  placed  his  hand  on  the  Kid's 
shoulder. 

"My  boy,"  said  he,  kindly,  "you  make  a  liv- 
ing by — by  sort  of  advising  folks  what  to  bet  on, 
don't  you?  If  they're  kind  of  halting  between 
two  opinions,  as  the  Book  says,  you  sort  of — 
help  'em  out,  eh?" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  grinned  broadly. 

"I  guess  that's  about  the  size  of  it,"  said  he. 

"Well,  if  you've  got  any  reg'lar  customers, 
don't  invite  'em  to  have  a  slice  of  Engle 's  melon 
next  Tuesday.  It  might  disagree  with  'em." 

"But  I  don't  see  how  you're  going  to  get 
away  from  Elisha!  He's  fit  and  ready  and 
right  on  edge.  You  can  throw  out  his  last  three 
races.  He's  good  enough  to  win  without  any 
framing. ' ' 

"I  know  he  is,  son.  Didn't  I  train  him?  Now 
you've  told  me  something  that  I've  been  trying 
to  find  out,  and  I've  told  you  something  you 
never  could  find  out.  Don't  ask  me  any  more. 

[30] 


LEVELLING   WITH    ELISHA 


...  No  use  talking,  Frank,  Solomon  was  a 
great  man.  Some  time  I  hope  to  have  a  race 
hoss  fit  to  be  named  after  him.  I  Ve  never  seen 
one  yet." 

"  Where  does  Solomon  get  in  on  this  propo- 
sition?" demanded  the  youth. 

Old  Man  Curry  chuckled. 

"You  don't  read  him,"  he  said.  "Solomon 
wrote  a  lot  of  advice  that  hossmen  can  use. 
For  instance:  'A  prudent  man  foreseeth  the 
evil  and  hideth  himself,  but  the  simple  pass  on 
and  are  punished/  IVe  told  you  this  Engle 
melon  ain't  as  ripe  as  they  think  it  is.  You 
be  prudent  and  don't  ask  me  how  I  know." 

"If  the  frame-up  goes  wrong,  what '11  win!" 
asked  the  Kid. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "my  hoss  Elijah's 
in  that  same  race,  but  it's  a  little  far  for  him. 
I  ain't  going  to  bet  anything.  Sometimes  it 
comes  handy  to  know  these  things." 

"You  spoke  an  armful  then!"  said  the  Kid. 
"Well,  I've  got  to  be  going.  I'll  keep  this  un- 
der my  hat." 

"So  do,  son,"  said  Old  Man  Curry.  "So  do. 
Good  night." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  reflected  aloud  as  he  de- 
parted. 

"And  some  people  think  that  old  fellow  don't 
know  the  right  way  of  the  track!"  he  mur- 
mured. "Gee!  I'd  give  something  to  be  in 
with  what  he's  got  up  his  sleeve!" 

Old  Man  Curry  was  still  tramping  up  and 
[31] 


OLD   MAN    CUKEY 


down  when  little  Mose  returned  from  his  nightly 
foray  upon  the  crap  games  of  the  neighbour- 
hood. The  boy  approached  silently  and  with 
lagging  gait,  sure  signs  that  fortune  had  not 
been  kind  to  him.  When  the  dice  behaved  well 
it  was  his  habit  to  return  with  songs  and  im- 
provised dance  steps. 

1  'Talk  'bout  luck!"  said  he,  morosely.  "You 
know  'at  flat-foot  Swede  whut  swipes  faw  Mist' 
O'Conneh?  Hungry  Hanson,  'ey  calls  him. 
Well,  he  goes  crazy  'ith  'e  heat  an'  flang  'em 
bones  jus'  like  he's  got  'em  ejicated.  Done 
tossed  out  nine  straight  licks,  boss.  Seems  to 
me  'at's  mo'  luck  'an  a  Swede  ought  to  have!" 

"Mose,"  said  Old  Man  Curry  suddenly,  "Job 
was  no  hossman." 

"I  neveh  'cused  him  of  it,"  replied  Mose 
sulkily. 

"A  hossman  wouldn't  have  wanted  his  ad- 
versary to  write  a  book.  If  he'd  said  make  a 
book,  now  .  .  .  but  the  best  way  to  get  square 
with  an  adversary  is  to  have  him  start  a  hoss 
in  the  same  race  with  you,  Mose." 

"I'll  take  yo'  word  faw  it,  boss,"  said  Mose. 
"When  you  go  talkin'  'bout  Job  an'  Sol'mun 
an'  'em  Bible  folks,  you  got  me  ridin'  on  a 
track  I  don't  know  no  thin'  'bout.  No  thin' 
a-a-atalL" 

It  was  Tuesday  afternoon  and  little  Mose 
was  struggling  into  his  riding  boots.  The  other 
jockeys  dressed  in  the  jockeys'  room  at  the 
paddock  inclosure,  but  Mose  found  it  pleasanter 

[32] 


LEVELLING   WITH    ELISHA 


to  don  the  silks  in  the  tack  room  of  Old  Man 
Curry's  barn,  which  also  served  him  as  a 
sleeping  apartment.  The  old  man  sat  on  the 
edge  of  Mose's  cot,  speaking  earnestly  and 
slapping  the  palm  of  his  left  hand  with  the 
fingers  of  his  right,  as  if  to  lend  emphasis  to 
his  words. 

"The  big  thing  is  to  get  him  away  from  the 
post.  I  want  Elijah  out  there  in  front  when  you 
turn  for  home.  With  his  early  speed,  he  ought 
to  be  leading  into  the  stretch.  Elisha  will  come 
from  behind;  Engle  is  smart  enough  for  that. 
He'll  have  to  pass  you  somewhere,  because 
Elijah  will  begin  to  peter  out  after  he's  gone 
half  a  mile.  Pull  in  as  close  to  Elisha 
as  you  can,  but  not  so  close  that  Merritt  can 
claim  a  foul,  and — you  know  the  rest. ' ' 

Mose  nodded  soberly.  '  '  Sutny  do,  boss.  But 
I  neveh  knowed  'at  oP  'Lisha — " 

"That'll  do,"  said  Old  Man  Curry  sternly. 
"There's  lots  of  things  you  don't  know,  Mose." 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  the  little  negro,  subsiding. 
"Quite  a  many." 

Later  the  Bald-faced  Kid  came  to  Old  Man 
Curry  in  the  paddock. 

"Elisha  looks  awful  good,"  said  he,  "and 
they're  commencing  to  set  in  the  checks.  He 
opened  at  4  to  1,  went  up  to  6,  and  they've  ham- 
mered him  down  to  2  to  1  now.  I  hear  they're 
playing  the  bulk  of  their  money  in  the  pool 
rooms  all  over  the  coast.  .  .  .  Elisha  looks  as 
if  he  could  win,  eh?" 

[33] 


OLD    MAX    CURRY 


Old  Man  Carry  combed  his  beard. 

"You  can't  always  tell  by  the  looks  of  a 
melon  what's  inside  it,  my  son." 

"Engle  is  telling  everybody  that  the  horse 
ain't  quite  ready,"  persisted  the  hustler.  "Of 
course  they  don't  want  everybody  betting  on 
him  and  spoiling  the  price." 

"He's  doing  'em  a  kindly  act  without  know- 
ing it,"  said  Old  Man  Curry.  "That's  'bout 
the  only  way  he'll  ever  do  one,  Frank,  unbe- 
knownst like." 

"You're  not  betting  on  this  one?"  asked  the 
Kid. 

"Not  a  thin  dime's  worth.  It's  too  far  for 
him." 

"I  give  it  up."  The  Kid  shook  his  head, 
hopelessly.  "You're  too  many  for  me." 

The  presiding  judge  came  out  on  the  plat- 
form in  front  of  the  stand  and  watched  the 
horses  dance  along  the  rail  on  their  way  to  the 
post,  coats  glistening,  eyes  flashing,  nostrils 
flaring — one  of  the  prettiest  sights  the  turf  of- 
fers to  its  patrons.  '  *  Merritt  on  Elisha  again, ' ' 
said  the  judge.  "Merritt.  Hm-m-m.  That 
young  man  is  entirely  too  strong  in  the  arms  to 
suit  me.  It  struck  me  the  last  three  times  he 
rode  this  horse.  But  somebody  is  betting  on 
Elisha  to-day.  That  may  make  a  difference, 
and  if  it  does,  we  may  have  to  ask  Mr.  Sharp- 
shooter Engle  a  few  questions." 

"Leave  it  to  him  to  answer  'em,"  said  the 
associate  judge.  "It's  the  best  thing  he  does. 

[34] 


LEVELLING  WITH    ELISHA 


That  fellow  is  like  a  hickory  nut — smooth  on  the 
outside,  but  hard,  awfully  hard,  to  get  anything 
out  of.  ...  Old  Man  Curry  is  in  this  race  with 
Elijah.  Little  far  for  him,  isn't  it!" 

In  the  very  top  row  of  the  grand  stand 
Grouchy  Martin  O'Connor  waited  for  Al  En- 
gle.  Just  as  the  horses  reached  the  post,  the 
Sharpshooter  slipped  in,  breathless  and  fum- 
bling at  the  catch  cf  his  binocular  case.  "He 
was  6  to  5  when  I  came  through  the  betting 
ring,"  said  Engle.  "Well,  any  old  price  is  a 
good  price.  He  '11  roll  home. ' ' 

"He  better.  He  owes  me  something," 
growled  O'Connor. 

"This  is  where  he  pays  you." 

"I  hope  so." 

"I  saw  Old  Man  Curry  out  in  the  paddock," 
and  Engle  smiled  at  the  recollection.  "What 
do  you  think  the  old  coot  said  to  me ! ' ' 

"What  do  I  care  what  an  old  nut  says!" 

"Nobody  cares,  of  course,  but  this  was  kind 
of  funny.  After  the  horses  started  for  the  post 
he  came  up  to  me,  solemn  as  a  judge,  and  says 
he:  'Remember,  I  told  you  this  was  a  trick 
horse/  Just  like  that.  They  ought  to  have  a 
look  at  his  head.  He's  got  an  attic  for  rent, 
sure." 

1  '  Must  have.  But  what  does  he  mean  by  that 
trick-horse  stuff!  He  pulled  it  on  you  a  couple 
of  times  when  you  ran  Elisha  up  on  him." 

"Darned  if  I  know.  I  guess  that's  just  his 
way  of  kidding.  .  .  .  Hello!  They 're  off!" 

[35] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


"Yes,  and  that  thing  of  Curry's  got  away 
flying." 

"He'll  quit  about  the  time  he  hits  the  head  of 
the  stretch,"  said  Engle.  "He  gets  his  mail 
there.  .  .  .  Merritt  has  got  Elisha  in  on  the 
rail,  taking  it  easy,  as  I  told  him  to.  Believe 
me,  that  baby  is  some  stretch  runner ! ' ' 

"It  cost  me  enough  to  find  it  out!"  said 
O'Connor  shortly. 

Engle  peered  through  his  binoculars. 

"Unless  he  breaks  a  leg,  or  something" — 
here  O'Connor  hastily  knocked  wood — "we'll 
clean  up,"  said  Engle,  critically.  "Elisha  is 
fighting  for  his  head — wants  to  run.  I  don't 
care  where  he  is,  turning  for  home.  He'll  run 
over  that  bunch  in  the  last  quarter." 

"Yes,  but  look  at  that  Elijah  go!"  muttered 
O'Connor. 

"Let  him  go !"  said  Engle,  with  a  trace  of  ir- 
ritation. "He'll  come  back;  he  always  does. 
Bet  you  fifty  he's  last!" 

"Got  you!"  snapped  O'Connor.  "You  may 
not  know  any  more  about  this  one  than  you  did 
about  Elisha  last  month!" 

The  dots  of  colour  skimmed  around  the  upper 
turn,  one  of  them  so  far  ahead  that  it  seemed 
lonely.  This  was  Elijah,  burning  his  early 
speed,  jack-rabbiting  ten  lengths  in  front  of  his 
field,  but  beginning  to  notice  his  exertions  and 
feel  the  swift  pace. 

"  'Lijah,"  remarked  little  Mose,  looking  back 
over  his  shoulder,  "if-  eveh  you  finds  a  race 

[36] 


LEVELLING   WITH    ELISHA 


track  whut's  got  a  short  home  stretch  in  it, 
you'll  be  'notheh  Eoseben.  Sutny  will.  On'iest 
trouble  'ith  you,  'Lijah,  'em  stretches  built  too 
long  faw  you.  Put  'e  judges'  stand  up  heah 
whah  we  is  now,  an'  yo'  neveh  lose  a  race !  .  .  . 
Uh,  huh!  Heah  come  'Lisha  now;  'em  otheh 
jocks  lettin'  him  th'ough  on  'e  rail.  .  .  .  Come 
on,  honey  blossom!  We's  waitin'  faw  you. 
Come  on!" 

Said  the  presiding  judge:  "That  thing  in 
front  is  quitting  to  nothing  .  .  .  and  here  comes 
Elisha  through  on  the  rail.  .  .  .  Yes,  he's  a 
real  race  horse  to-day.  Better  see  Engle  about 
this.  Have  to  teach  him  that  he  can't  run  his 
horses  in  and  out  at  this  track!" 

Said  Al  Engle :  "What  did  I  tell  you?  Eun- 
ning  over  horses,  ain't  he?  He'll  have  that 
Elijah  grabbed  in  a  few  more  jumps.  .  .  .  Take 
it  easy,  Merritt!  Don't  win  too  far  with  him!" 

Martin  O'Connor  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  re- 
lief. Like  all  cautious  souls,  he  never  ceased 
to  worry  until  the  last  doubt  was  dispelled. 
The  weary,  staggering  Elijah  was  the  only  bar- 
rier between  Elisha  and  the  goal.  O'Connor's 
practiced  eye  saw  no  menace  in  that  floundering 
front  runner;  no  danger  in  a  shaft  already 
spent.  "He  wins!  He  wins  easy!"  breathed 
Martin. 

' 1  Just  rolls  home,  I  tell  you ! ' '  said  the  Sharp- 
shooter, putting  away  his  binoculars.  "I  knew 
he  would." 

By  leaps  and  bounds  the  stretch-running 
[37] 


OLD   MAN    CUEKY 


Elisha  overhauled  Ms  former  stable  compan- 
ion. Poor,  tired  Elijah  was  rocking  in  his  gait, 
losing  ground  almost  as  fast  as  Elisha  was 
gaining  it;  his  race  was  behind  him;  he  could 
do  no  more. 

Mose,  keeping  watch  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye, 
saw  the  bay  head  bobbing  close  behind.  Now 
it  was  at  Elijah's  heels;  the  next  stride  would 
bring  it  level  with  the  saddle.  .  .  .  The  next 
stride, 

All  that  anyone  ever  saw  was  that  Jockey 
Moseby  Jones  leaned  slightly  toward  the  fly- 
ing Elisha  as  Merritt  drew  alongside,  and  very 
few  spectators  saw  this  much.  Who  cares  to 
watch  a  loser  when  the  winner  is  in  sight?  Old 
Man  Curry,  waiting  at  the  paddock  gate,  saw 
the  movement  and  immediately  began  to  search 
his  pockets  for  tobacco. 

Jockey  Merritt,  strong  of  arm  but  weak  of 
principle,  was  first  to  realize  that  something 
had  happened.  Elisha 's  speed  checked  with 
such  suddenness  that  the  rider  narrowly  es- 
caped pitching  out  of  the  saddle.  .  .  .  Had  the 
horse  stumbled  ...  or  been  frightened?  .  .  . 
What  in  the  world  was  it?  ...  Merritt  recov- 
ered his  balance  and  quite  instinctively  drove 
the  spurs  home ;  the  only  response  was  a  grunt 
from  Elisha.  The  long  racing  stride  short- 
ened to  a  choppy  one.  The  horse  was  not  tired, 
nor  was  he  quitting  in  the  general  acceptance 
of  the  term;  he  was  merely  stopping  to  a  walk 
with  all  possible  speed.  Merritt  was  seized  with 

[38] 


LEVELLING  WITH    ELISHA 


panic.  He  drew  his  whip  and  began  slashing 
savagely.  Eli'sha  answered  this  by  waving  his 
tail  high  in  the  air,  a  protest  and  a  flag  of  truce 
— but  run  he  would  not.  His  pace  grew  slower 
and  slower  and  at  the  paddock  gate  he  was  on 
even  terms  with  the  drooping  Elijah.  "What 
ails  that  horse? "  demanded  the  presiding 
judge.  "He  won't  run  a  lick!  Acts  as  if  he's 
taken  a  sulky  streak  all  at  once ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  the  associate.  "The  Bible 
horses  are  having  a  contest  to  see  which  one 
of  'em  can  quit  the  fastest.  .  .  .  Queer-looking 
race,  judge.  And  they  bet  on  Elisha  this  time, 
too." 

"I'm  glad  of  it!"  exploded  the  other.  "It 
serves  'em  right.  I  like  to  see  a  frame-up  go 
wrong  once  in  a  while ! ' ' 

Side  by  side  Elijah  and  Elisha  fell  back 
toward  the  field,  little  Mose  grinning  from  ear 
to  ear,  but  industriously  hand  riding  his  mount ; 
Jockey  Merritt  cursing  wildly  and  plying  raw- 
hide and  steel  with  all  his  strength.  The  other 
horses,  coming  on  with  a  closing  rush,  envel- 
oped the  pair,  passed  them  and  continued  on 
toward  the  wire. 

Only  one  remark  of  Martin  O'Connor's  is  fit 
for  quotation.  It  came  when  his  vocabulary 
was  bare  of  vituperation,  abusive  epithet,  and 
profanity. 

"You  can  slip  me  fifty,  Engle.  That  darned 
trick  horse  of  yours  was  last!" 

An  inquisitive  soul  is  an  itching  thing  and 
[39] 


OLD   MAN    CUBBY 


the  gathering  of  information  was  the  Bald- 
faced  Kid's  ruling  passion.  He  called  at  Old 
Man  Curry's  stable  that  evening  with  a  bit  of 
news  which  he  hoped  to  use  as  the  key  to  a  se- 
cret. 

"Greetings!"  said  he  at  the  tack-room  door. 
"Thought  you'd  like  to  know  that  Engle  has 
sold  Elisha.  Pete  Lawrence  bought  him  for 
three  hundred  dollars.  Engle  says  that's  two- 
ninety-five  more  than  he'd  bring  at  a  soap 
works. ' ' 

Old  Man  Curry  had  been  reading  by  the  light 
of  the  tack-room  lantern ;  he  pushed  his  glasses 
back  on  his  forehead  and  smiled  at  his  infor- 
mant. 

6 ' Oh,  Elisha ! ' '  said  he.  "Yes,  if  you  look  in 
the  second  stall  to  the  right,  you'll  find  him. 
He's  been  straying  among  the  publicans  and 
sinners,  but  he's  home  again  now  where  he  be- 
longs. I  asked  Pete  to  go  over  and  buy  him  for 
me." 

"Good  work!"  said  the  Kid,  seating  himself. 
"There's  quite  a  mass  meeting  over  at  Engle 's 
tarn." 

"So?"  said  Old  Man  Curry. 

"Yes  indeed!  They've  got  Jock  Merritt  up 
on  the  carpet  and  they  haven't  decided  yet 
whether  to  hang  him  to  a  rafter  or  boil  him  in 
oil.  Some  of  'em  think  he  pulled  Elisha  to-day. 
Merritt  is  giving  'em  a  powerful  argument. 
Says  he  never  rode  a  harder  finish  in  his  life, 
but  that  the  horse  took  a  sudden  notion  to  quit 

[40] 


LEVELLING    WITH    ELISHA 


and  did  it.  Didn't  seem  to  be  tired  or  anything, 
but  just  stopped  running.  O'Connor  gets  the 
floor  once  in  a  while  and  rips  and  raves  about 
that  ' trick-horse  thing.'  He  thinks  you  know 
something.  Engle  says  you  don't  and  never  did, 
but  that  Elisha  is  a  dog,  same  as  he  said  at  first. 
Wouldn't  surprise  me  none  if  they  got  into  a 
free-for-all  fight  over  there  because  they  're  all 
losers  and  all  sore.  Jock  Merritt  is  sorer 'n 
anybody ;  he  bet  some  of  his  own  money  and  he 
thinks  they  ought  to  give  it  back  to  him.  .  .  . 
Now,  just  between  friends,  what  happened  to 
that  horse  to-day  I  You  told  me  he  wouldn't 
win,  but  at  the  head  of  the  stretch  he  looked 
like  a  1  to  10  chance.  I  thought  he'd  walk  in. 
Then  all  at  once  he  quit  running.  He  wasn't 
pulled,  but  something  stopped  him  and  stopped 
him  quick.  What  was  it?" 

Old  Man  Curry  stroked  his  beard  and  re- 
garded the  Bald-faced  Kid  with  a  tolerant  ex- 
pression. 

"Well,  now,"  said  he  at  length,  "seeing  as 
how  you  know  so  much,  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
something  more  'bout  that  'Lisha  hoss.  He 
used  to  have  another  name  once." 

"Silver  Star,"  nodded  the  Kid.  "I  looked 
him  up  in  the  form  charts." 

Old  Man  Curry  nodded. 

"Eddie  Caley — him  they  called  the  Cricket — 
owned  the  hoss  in  the  first  place.  Eaised  him 
from  a  yearling.  Now  understand,  I  ain't  ex- 
cusing the  Cricket  for  what  he  done,  and  I  ain't 

[41] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


blaming  him  neither.  He  was  sick  most  of  the 
time,  and  a  sick  man  gets  his  notions  sort  of 
twisted  like.  Maybe  he  figured  the  race  track 
owed  him  something  for  taking  away  his 
health.  I  don't  know.  He  wasn't  no  hand  to 
talk. 

" Anyhow,  he  had  this  one  hoss  and  always 
the  one  idea  in  his  head — to  slip  him  over  at 
such  a  long  price  that  he  could  clean  up  enough 
to  quit  on.  Caley  was  doing  his  own  training 
and  riding.  I  kept  an  eye  on  the  hoss,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  Silver  Star  worked  good  enough 
to  win,  but  every  time  he  got  in  a  race  he'd 
quit  at  the  head  of  the  stretch.  That  struck 
me  as  sort  of  queer  because  he  come  from 
stretch-running  stock.  His  daddy  was  a  great 
one  to  win  from  behind.  Well,  six  or  seven  times 
Silver  Star  quit  that  way,  and  from  the  head  of 
the  stretch  home  the  Cricket  would  lay  into 
him,  whip  and  spur  both.  Wouldn't  make  the 
slightest  difference  to  the  hoss,  but  everybody 
could  see  that  Caley  was  doing  his  best  to 
make  him  run.  Folks  got  kind  of  sorry  for 
him,  sick  that  way,  only  one  hoss  and  him  such 
a  dog. 

"Then  one  day  Caley  came  to  me  and  wanted 
the  loan  of  some  money.  He  said  the  price  had 
got  long  enough  to  suit  him,  but  that  he  didn't 
have  anything  to  bet.  Happened  I  had  the  bank 
roll  handy  and  I  let  him  have  two  hundred.  I 
can  see  the  little  feller  now,  with  the  red  patches 

[42] 


LEVELLING   WITH    ELISHA 


on  his  cheeks  and  his  eyes  kind  of  shining  with 
fever. 

"  'This  is  the  biggest  cinch  that  ever  came 
off  on  a  race  track!'  he  says  to  me,  coughing 
every  few  words.  'Don't  let  the  price  scare 
yon.  Don't  let  anything  scare  you.  He'll  be  a 
good  hoss  to-day.  Win  something  for  your- 
self.' 

"It's  this  way  'bout  me:  I've  heard  that 
kind  of  talk  before.  When  I  bet,  it's  got  to  be 
on  my  own  hoss.  I  thought  two  hundred  was 
plenty  to  lose.  Silver  Star  was  25  and  30  to  1 
all  over  the  ring  and  a  friend  of  Caley's  un- 
loaded the  two  hundred  in  little  driblets  so's 
nobody  would  get  suspicious  and  cut  the  price 
too  far.  The  Cricket  got  out  of  a  sick  bed  to 
ride  the  race  and  Silver  Star  came  from  be- 
hind and  won  by  seven  lengths.  Could  have 
made  it  seventeen  easy  as  not.  I  reckon  every- 
body was  glad  to  see  Caley  win — everybody 
but  the  bookmakers,  but  they  hadn't  any  right 
to  kick,  seeing  as  he  beat  a  red-hot  favourite. 

"Caley  went  to  bed  that  night  and  didn't  get 
up  any  more.  I  used  to  read  to  him  when  he 
couldn't  sleep.  Maybe  that's  how  he  come  to 
give  me  the  hoss,  along  with  a  little  secret  'bout 
him." 

Old  Man  Curry  paused,  tantalisingly,  and 
rummaged  in  his  pockets  for  his  fine-cut.  The 
Bald-faced  Kid  squirmed  on  his  chair. 

"It  was  a  trick  that  nobody  but  a  jockey 
would  ever  have  thought  of,  son.  Caley  taught 

[43] 


OLD   MAN    CUKEY 


the  colt  to  stop  whenever  a  certain  word  was 
hollered  in  his  ear.  Dinged  it  into  him,  morn- 
ing after  morning,  until  Silver  Star  got  so's 
he'd  quit  as  soon  as  he  heard  it,  like  a  buggy 
boss  stops  when  you  say  'Whoa*  to  him.  Best 
part  of  the  trick,  though,  was  that  all  the  whip- 
ping and  spurring  in  the  world  couldn't  get 
him  to  running  again.  Caley  taught  him  that 
for  his  own  protection.  It  gave  him  an  alibi 
with  the  judges.  Couldn't  they  see  he  was  rid- 
ing the  hoss  as  hard  as  he  knew  how?  I  don't 
Bay  it  was  exackly  honest,  but " 

"Oho!"  interrupted  the  Bald-faced  Kid, 
"now  I  know  why  you  had  a  front  runner  in 
that  race!  Between  friends,  old-timer,  what 
was  it  Mose  hollered  at  Elisha  when  he  came 
alongside?" 

"Well,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  "that's  the  se- 
cret of  it,  my  son,  and  it's  this  way  'bout  a 
gecret:  you  can't  let  too  many  folks  in  on  it. 
I  reckon  it  was  a  word  spoken  in  due  season,  as 
Solomon  says.  Elisha,  he  won't  hear  it  again 
artless  he  changes  owners." 


[44] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOB  OBADIAH 


OLD  MAN  CUBBY,  owner  of  race  horses, 
looked  out  of  his  tack-room  door  at  a 
streaming  sky  and  gave  thanks  for  the 
rain.     Other  owners  were  cursing  the 
steady  downpour,  for  a  wet  track  would  sadly 
interfere  with  their  plans,  but  Curry  expected 
to  start  the  chestnut  colt  Obadiah  that  after- 
noon, and  Obadiah,  as  Jockey  Moseby  Jones 
was  wont  to  remark,  was  a  mud-running  fool  on 
any  man's  track.     The  Bald-faced  Kid,  who 
lived  by  doing  the  best  he  could  and  preferred 
to  be  called  a  hustler  rather  than  a  tout,  spoke 
from  the  tack-room  interior.    He  was  a  priv- 
ileged character  at  the  Curry  barn. 

"How  does  she  look,  old-timer?  Going  to 
dear  up  by  noon?" 

Old  Man  Curry  shook  his  head.  "Well,  no," 
said  he.  "I  reckon  not.  Looks  to  me  like  reg- 
'lar  Noah  weather,  Frank.  If  a  man's  got  a 
mud  hoss  in  his  barn,  now's  the  time  to  start 
Mm." 

i     The  Bald-faced  Kid  grunted  absently.     He 
was  deep  in  a  thick,  leather-backed,  looseleaf 

[45] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


volume  of  past  performances,  technically  known 
as  a  form  book,  generally  mentioned  as  "the 
dope  sheets  " — the  library  of  the  turf  follower, 
the  last  resort  and  final  court  of  appeal.  The 
Kid's  lower  lip  had  a  studious  droop  and  the 
pages  rustled  under  his  nervous  fingers.  An 
unlighted  cigarette  was  behind  his  ear. 

"What  you  looking  for,  son?" 

"I'm  trying  to  make  Gaspargoo  win  his  race 
to-day.  He's  in  there  with  a  feather  on  his 
back,  and  there'll  be  a  price  on  him.  He's  been 
working  good,  too.  He  quits  on  a  dry  track, 
but  in  the  mud  he's  liable  to  go  farther.  His 
old  feet  won't  get  so  hot."  Curry  peered  over 
the  Kid's  shoulder  at  the  crowded  columns  of 
figures  and  footnotes,  unintelligible  to  any  but 
the  initiated,  and  supposedly  a  complete  record 
of  the  racing  activities  of  every  horse  in  train- 
ing. 

"Hm-m-m.  Some  folks  say  Solomon  didn't 
write  Ecclesiastes.  Some  say  he  did — after  he 
got  rid  of  his  wives." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  laughed. 

"You  and  your  Solomon!  Well,  get  it  off 
your  chest!  What  does  Ee  say  now?" 

"I  think  it  must  have  been  Solomon,  because 
here's  something  that  sounds  just  like  him: 
'Of  making  many  books  there  is  no  end;  and 
much  study  is  a  weariness  of  the  flesh.'  It 
would  weary  a  mule's  flesh  to  study  them  dope 
books,  Frank.  There's  so  many  things  enter 
into  the  running  of  hosses  which  ought  to  be 

[46] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOE  OBADIAH 


printed  in  'em  and  ain't.  For  instance,  take 
that  race  right  in  front  of  you. ' '  The  old  man 
put  his  finger  upon  the  page.  "I  remember  it 
well.  Here's  Engle's  mare,  Sunflower,  the  fa- 
yourite  and  comes  fourth.  Ab  Hears  wins  it 
with  the  black  hoss,  Anthracite.  Six  to  one. 
What  does  the  book  say  'bout  Sunflower's 
race  ? ' ' 

The  Kid  read  the  explanatory  footnote. 

"  'Sunflower,  away  badly,  and  messed  about 
the  first  part  of  the  journey;  had  no  chance  to 
catch  the  leaders,  but  closed  strong  under  the 
whip.'  " 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Old  Man  Curry.  "Good  as 
far  as  it  goes,  but  that's  all.  Might  as  well 
tell  a  lie  as  part  of  the  truth.  Why  not  come 
right  out  with  it  and  say  that  Engle  was  bet- 
ting on  Anthracite  that  day  and  the  boy  on 
Sunflower  rode  the  mare  to  orders?  That's 
what  happened.  Engle  and  Mears  and  O'Con- 
nor and  Weaver  and  some  of  the  rest  of  'em 
run  these  races  the  night  before  over  in  0  'Con- 
nor's barn.  They  get  together  and  then  decide 
on  a  caucus  nominee.  Why  not  put  that  in  the 
book?" 

"Speaking  of  Mears,"  said  the  Bald-faced 
Kid,  "he  thinks  he'll  win  to-day  with  White- 
thorn." 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "I'll  tell  you, 
Frank;  it's  this  way  'bout  Whitethorn;  he'll 
win  if  he  can  beat  Obadiah.  The  colt's  ready 
and  this  weather  suits  him  down  to  the  ground. 

[47] 


OLD    MA1T    CUKKY 


He  surely  does  love  to  run  in  the  slop.  Only 
bad  thing  'bout  it,  Engle  and  Weaver  are  both 
in  that  race,  and  since  I  trimmed  that  gang  of 
pirates  with  Elisha  they've  had  it  in  for  me. 
Their  jockeys  act  like  somebody's  told  'em 
there's  an  open  season  on  my  hosses.  They 
bump  that  little  nigger  of  mine  every  chance 
they  get.  Pretty  near  put  him  into  the  fence 
twice  last  week." 

"Why  don't  you  holler  to  the  judges?" 

"They  haven't  done  any  real  damage,  son. 
And  here's  another  angle:  these  judges  won't 
give  a  nigger  any  the  best  of  it  on  a  claim  of 
foul  agin  a  white  boy.  My  Mose  is  the  only 
darky  rider  here,  and  the  other  boys  want  to 
drive  him  out.  Between  Engle  and  his  gang 
after  me,  and  the  jockeys  after  Mose,  we  got 
our  hands  full." 

"I'll  bet*  Going  to  gamble  any  on  Obadiah 
to-day!" 

"If  I  like  the  price.  None  of  the  bookmak- 
ers here  will  ever  die  of  enlargement  of  the 
heart.  If  Obadiah  is  shorter  than  three  to 
one,  he'll  run  for  the  purse  alone.  The  hoss 
that  beats  him  on  a  sloppy  track  will  know  that 
he's  been  going  some." 

It  happened  just  beyond  the  half-mile  pole, 
in  a  sudden  flurry  of  wind  and  rain.  The  spec- 
tators, huddling  under  the  grand-stand  roof, 
saw  the  horses  dimly  as  through  a  heavy  mist. 
The  colours  were  indistinguishable  at  the  dis- 
tance, drenched  and  sodden. 

[48] 


PLAYING   EVEN   FOB   OBADIAH 


"  Hello !"  said  the  presiding  judge,  who  had 
been  wiping  his  field  glasses.  "One  of  'em 
went  down!  What  happened ?" 

"Don't  know,"  replied  the  associate  judge. 
"I  was  watching  that  thing  in  front — White- 
thorn. .  .  .  Yes,  and  that  horse  is  hurt,  Major. 
.  .  .  The  boy  is  all  right,  though.  He's  on  his 
feet." 

"It's  Old  Man  Gurry's  horse,"  said  the 
other.  "Obadiah — and  I  sort  of  figured  him 
the  contender  in  this  race,  too.  .  .  .  The  boy 
has  got  him.  .  .  .  Looks  like  a  broken  leg  to 
me.  .  .  .  Too  bad.  .  .  .  Better  send  an  officer 
over  there." 

Before  the  judges  knew  that  anything  had 
happened  a  shabby,  bearded  old  man  in  a  rusty 
black  frock  coat  dodged  across  the  track  from 
the  paddock  gate  and  splashed  hurriedly 
through  the  infield.  Old  Man  Curry  never  used 
binoculars ;  he  had  the  eyes  of  an  eagle. 

"Been  looking  for  it  to  happen  every  day!" 
he  muttered.  "And  a  right  likely  colt,  too. 
The  skunks !  The  miserable  little  skunks ! ' ' 

Whitethorn,  the  winner  of  the  race,  was  back 
in  the  ring  and  unsaddled  before  the  old  man 
reached  the  half-mile  pole.  Jocky  Moseby 
Jones,  plastered  with  mud  from  his  bullet  head 
to  his  boots,  shaken  and  bruised  but  otherwise 
unhurt,  clung  to  Obadiah 's  bridle. 

"Now,  honey,  you  jus'  stan'  still!"  he  was 
saying.  "Jus'  stan'  still  an'  we  git  yo'  laig 
fixed  up  in  no  time;  no  time  a-a-a-tall." 

[49] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


The  colt  stood  with  drooping  head,  drum- 
ming on  the  ground  with  the  crippled  foreleg; 
from  time  to  time  the  unfortunate  animal  shiv- 
ered as  with  a  violent  chill.  Old  Man  Curry 
knelt  in  the  mud,  but  rose  almost  immediately; 
one  glance  at  the  broken  leg  was  enough.  He 
looked  at  the  little  negro. 

"How  did  it  happen,  Mose?" 

"Jockey  Murphy  done  it,  boss.  He  was  on 
'at  thing  of  Weaver's." 

"A-purpose?" 

"Sutny  he  done  it  a-purpose.  He  cut  in  on 
us  an'  knocked  us  agin  the  rail.  Come  from 
Vay  outside  to  do  it." 

Old  Man  Curry  began  to  take  the  saddle  off 
the  colt.  A  tall  man  in  a  rubber  coat,  gum 
boots,  and  a  uniform  cap  arrived  on  the  scene, 
panting  after  his  run  from  the  grand  stand. 
He  looked  at  Obadiah's  leg,  sucked  in  his  breath 
with  a  whistling  sound  more  expressive  than 
words,  and  faced  Old  Man  Curry. 

"Want  the  'vet'  to  see  him?"  asked  the  new- 
comer. 

' '  No  use  in  him  suffering  that  long, ' '  said  the 
old  man  dully.  "He's  ruined.  Might  as  well 
get  it  over  with." 

Jockey  Moseby  Jones  wailed  aloud. 

"Oh,  don'  let  'em  shoot  Obadiah,  boss!"  he 
pleaded.  "I'll  take  keer  o'  him;  I'll  set  up 
nights  'ith  him.  Can't  you  splint  it!  Ain't 
there  nothin'  we  kin  do  fo'  him?" 

"Only  one  thing,  Mose,"  said  Old  Man 
[50] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOB  OBADIAH 


Curry.  "It's  a  kindness,  I  reckon/'  He 
passed  the  bridle  to  the  uniformed  stranger. 
"Don't  be  too  long  about  it,"  said  he. 

The  colt,  gentle  and  obedient  to  the  last,  hob- 
bled off  the  track  toward  a  sheltering  grove  of 
trees  near  the  upper  turn.  Custom  decrees  that 
the  closing  scene  of  a  turf  tragedy  shall  not  be 
enacted  within  sight  of  the  grand  stand.  Two 
very  young  stableboys  followed  at  a  distance. 

"Bun  away,  kids,"  said  the  tall  man,  fum- 
bling at  his  hip  pocket.  "You  don't  want  to 
see  this." 

Old  Man  Curry  strode  along  the  track,  his 
shoulders  squared,  his  face  stern  and  his  eyes 
blazing  with  the  cold  rage  which  sometimes 
overtakes  a  patient  man.  Little  Mose  trailed 
at  his  heels,  whimpering  and  casting  scared 
glances  behind.  After  a  time  they  heard  the 
muffled  report  of  a  pistol. 

"He's  out  of  his  misery,  sonny,"  said  the 
old  man.  "It's  the  best  way — the  best  way — 
and  now  I  want  you  to  tell  them  judges  just 
how  it  happened." 

But  Jockey  Murphy  had  already  told  his 
story,  ably  seconded  by  his  friends,  Grogan  and 
Merritt.  These  boys  had  been  interviewed  by 
racing  judges  before  and,  consequently,  were 
not  embarrassed. 

"Judges — gentlemen,"  said  Murphy,  cap  in 
hand — a  vest-pocket  edition  of  a  horseman, 
freckled,  blue-eyed,  and  bow-legged — "this  was 
how  it  happened:  That  little  nigger  nearly 

[51] 


OLD   MAN    CUKRY 


spilled  the  whole  bunch  of  us,  tryin'  to  cut 
acrost  to  the  rail  go  in'  into  the  turn.  We  yelled 
at  him,  and  he  kind  of  lost  his  head — tried  to 
yank  his  hoss  around  and  down  he  went.  Awful 
slippery  over  there,  judges.  I  had  to  pull  up 
with  Fieldmouse,  and  couldn't  get  her  to  going 
again.  She's  a  mean,  skulking  mare,  and  won't 
run  a  lick  after  she 's  been  interfered  with.  .  .  . 
Who  else  saw  it  ?  Why,  Merritt  was  right  there 
somewheres,  and  so  was  Grogan.  They're  all 
that  I'm  sure  of.  You  might  ask  'em  whether 
the  nigger  cut  acrost  or  not.  He's  an  awful 
reckless  little  kid,  and  he'll  kill  somebody  yet 
if  he  ain't  more  careful." 

Grogan  and  Merritt,  called  in  support  of  this 
statement,  perjured  themselves  like  jockeys, 
and  there  was  no  conflicting  note  in  the  testi- 
mony. Mose,  coming  late,  told  his  story,  but 
the  judges  were  swayed  by  the  preponderance 
of  evidence.  It  was  three  against  one,  and  that 
one  a  very  poor  witness,  for  Mose  was  over- 
awed by  his  surroundings  and  contradicted  him- 
self several  times  out  of  pure  fright.  In  the 
end  he  was  allowed  to  go  with  a  solemn  warning 
to  be  more  careful  in  the  future. 

When  this  word  was  brought  to  Old  Man 
Curry  he  lumbered  heavily  up  the  steps  and 
into  the  judges'  stand,  where  he  refused  a  chair 
and  delivered  himself  standing,  the  water  drip- 
ping in  tiny  puddles  from  the  skirt  of  his  long 
black  coat. 

1  '  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  you  're  barking  up 
[52] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOB  OBADIAH 


the  wrong  tree.  I've  been  expecting  something 
like  this  ever  since  the  meeting  opened.  My 
little  boy  can't  ride  a  race  'thout  interference 
from  these  rascals  that  take  their  orders  from 
Engle  and  his  bunch.  They've  tried  a  dozen 
times  to  put  him  over  the  fence,  and  now 
they've  killed  a  good  hoss  for  me.  I  ain't  go- 
ing to  stand  it.  I- 


But  the  other  boys  all  say- 


Great  King!"  interrupted  the  old  man 
wrathfully.  ' '  Of  course  they  do !  Told  you  the 
same  identical  story,  didn't  they?  Ain't  that 
proof  they're  lying!  Did  you  ever  see  three 
honest  people  that  could  agree  when  they  was 
trying  to  tell  the  truth  'bout  an  accident?  Did 
you?" 

Quite  naturally  the  judges  were  inclined  to 
regard  this  as  a  reflection  upon  their  official 
conduct.  Old  Man  Curry  was  reprimanded  for 
his  temerity,  and  descended  from  the  stand,  his 
beard  fairly  bristling  with  righteous  indigna- 
tion. Little  Mose  followed  him  down  the  track 
toward  the  paddock ;  he  had  to  trot  to  keep  up 
with  the  old  man's  stride. 

' l Might  have  knowed  they'd  team  up  agin 
us,"  said  the  negro.  "Them  Irish  jockeys  had 
a  story  all  cooked  to  tell." 

Old  Man  Curry  did  not  open  his  mouth  until 
he  reached  his  tack-room,  and  then  it  was  only 
to  stuff  one  cheek  with  fine-cut  tobacco — his 
solace  in  times  of  stress.  After  reflection  he 
spoke,  dropping  his  words  slowly,  one  by  one. 

[53] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


"Weaver  and  Murphy  and  Engle.  ...  It 
says  in  Ecclesiastes  that  a  threefold  cord  is  not 
easily  broken,  but  I  reckon  it  might  be  done,  one 
cord  at  a  time.  .  .  .  Well,  Mose,  they've  made 
us  take  the  medicine!" 

' '  Sutny  did ! ' '  chirped  the  little  negro.  '  '  But 
they'll  never  git  us  to  lick  the  spoon !" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  often  boasted  that  every- 
body's business  was  his  business — a  large  con- 
tract on  any  race  track  of  the  Jungle  Circuit. 
His  stop  watch  told  him  what  the  horses  were 
doing,  and  stableboys,  bartenders,  and  waiters 
told  him  what  their  owners  were  doing,  the  lat- 
ter vastly  more  important  to  the  Kid.  At  all 
times  he  used  his  eyes,  which  were  sharp  as 
gimlets.  Thus  it  happened  that  he  was  able  to 
give  Old  Man  Curry  a  bit  of  interesting  infor- 
mation. 

"Considering  what  these  birds,  Weaver  and 
Murphy,  did  to  you  last  week,"  said  the  Kid, 
"I  don't  suppose  you'd  fight  a  bulldog  for  'em, 
or  anything  like  that?" 

"Eh?  What  bulldog?"  Old  Man  Curry 
could  never  keep  abreast  of  the  vernacular. 

"Getting  down  to  cases,"  said  the  Kid, 
"you're  laying  for  Weaver  and  Murphy,  ain't 
you?" 

"I  ain't  said  so  in  that  many  words,"  was 
the  cautious  response. 

"You  ain't  going  to  let  'em  kill  a  good  colt 
for  you  and  get  away  with  it,  are  you?  Weaver 
was  only  in  that  race  to  take  care  of  Obadiah. 

[54] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOB  OBADIAH 


Engle's  gang  was  down  hook,  line,  and  sinker 
on  Whitethorn,  and  they  cleaned  up.  Obadiah. 
was  the  one  they  was  leery  of,  so  Weaver  put 
Fieldmouse  in  the  race  and  told  Murphy  to 
take  care  of  you.  It's  simple  as  A,  B,  C. 
Wouldn't  you  get  back  at  'em  if  you  had  a 
chance  ? ' ' 

"I  ain't  signed  any  peace  documents  as  I 
know  of, ' '  said  the  old  man,  a  smouldering  light 
in  his  eye. 

"Now  you're  talking!"  said  the  Kid.  "If 
yon  want  to  catch  Weaver  and  Murphy  dead  to 
rights,  I  can  tell  how  to  go  about  it." 

"So  do,  Frank,"  said  Old  Man  Curry.  "So 
do.  My  ear  is  open  to  your  cry." 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  the  Kid,  lighting  a 
cigarette,  "I  don't  suppose  you  know  that 
Weaver  has  been  stealing  weight  off  his  horses 
ever  since  this  meeting  opened." 

"With  Parker,  the  clerk  of  the  scales?"  ejac- 
nlated  the  old  man.  "I've  heard  that  couldn't 
be  done." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  chuckled. 

"A  smart  owner  can  do  anything,"  said  he, 
"and  Weaver's  smart.  At  these  other  tracks, 
stealing  weight  off  a  horse  is  the  king  of  indoor 
sports,  and  they  mostly  work  it  through  a  stand- 
in  with  the  clerk  of  the  scales ;  but  you're  right 
about  this  fellow  Parker.  He 's  on  the  level,  and 
they  can't  get  at  him.  A  jock  has  got  to  weigh 
in  and  weigh  out  on  the  dot  when  Parker  is 

[55] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


on  the  job.    He  won't  let  'em  get  by  with  the 
difference  of  an  ounce." 

6  '  Then  how "  began  Old  Man  Curry. 

" There  you  go,  busting  through  the  barrier! 
Weaver  is  pulling  the  wool  over  Parker's  eyes. 
Now  here's  what  I  saw  yesterday:  Weaver 
had  Exmoor  in  the  third  race,  supposed  to  be 
carrying  one  hundred  and  ten  pounds.  Jock 
Murphy  ain't  much  bigger 'n  a  rabbit — tack  and 
all,  he  won't  weigh  ninety-five.  That  would 
make,  say,  fifteen  pounds  of  lead  in  the  weight 
pad.  Murphy  got  on  the  scales  and  was  checked 
out  of  the  jock's  room  at  one  hundred  and  ten, 
all  square  enough,  but  when  Weaver  saddled 
Exmoor  he  left  the  weight  pad  off  him  en- 
tirely— slipped  it  to  that  big  nigger  swipe  of  his 
|-i — Chicken  Liver  Pete,  they  call  him." 

"I  know  him,"  said  Old  Man  Curry. 

"Everybody  knows  him,"  said  the  Kid. 
"Well,  Chicken  Liver  put  the  weight  pad  un- 
der the  blanket  that  he  was  carrying  to  throw 
over  the  horse  after  the  race.  Exmoor  won 
yesterday,  but  he  didn't  carry  an  ounce  of 
lead." 

"But  how  did  Murphy  make  the  weight  after 
he  finished?"  demanded  the  old  man. 

"Easiest  thing  in  the  world!"  said  the  Kid. 
"While  Murphy  was  unsaddling  the  horse, 
Chicken  Liver  was  right  at  his  elbow,  and  both 
of  'em  had  their  backs  to  the  judges.  It  looked 
natural  enough  for  the  nigger  to  be  there — 
waiting  to  blanket  the  horse  the  minute  the 

[56] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOB  OBADIAH 


saddle  came  off  of  him.  All  Murphy  had  to  do 
was  grab  under  the  blanket  with  one  hand  while 
he  jerked  the  saddle  off  the  horse  with  the  other 
— and  there  he  was,  ready  to  weigh  one  hundred 
and  ten.  Ill  bet  those  two  fellows  have  re- 
hearsed that  switch  a  thousand  times.  They 
pulled  it  off  so  slick  that  if  I  hadn't  been  watch- 
ing for  it  I  could  have  been  looking  right  at 
'em  and  never  noticed  it.  And  the  judges  didn't 
have  the  chance  that  I  did,  because  they  couldn't 
see  anything  but  their  backs.  Murphy  pranced 
in,  hopped  on  the  scales,  got  the  0.  K.,  and  that 
was  all  there  was  to  it.  Pretty  little  scheme, 
ain  't  it  f  And  so  darned  simple ! ' ' 

Old  Man  Curry  combed  his  beard  with  both 
hands — with  him  a  sign  of  deep  thought. 

' i Frank,"  said  he  at  length,  " where  does  this 
Chicken  Liver  nigger  go  while  the  race  is  being 
run?" 

"Across  the  track  to  the  infield.  That  was 
where  he  went  yesterday.  I  was  watching  him." 

"The  infield.  .  .  .  Hm-m-m.  .  .  .  Thank  you, 
Frank." 

"You  could  tip  it  off  to  the  judges,"  sug- 
gested the  Kid,  "and  they'd  have  Chicken  Liver 
searched.  Like  as  not  they'd  rule  Weaver  off 
for  life  and  set  Murphy  down " 

"There's  a  better  way  than  searching  that 
nigger,"  said  Old  Man  Curry. 

"You'll  have  to  show  me!" 

"Son,"  said  the  aged  owner,  "according  to 
Solomon — and,  oh,  what  a  racing  judge  lie 

[57] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


would  have  made! — 'he  that  hath  knowledge 
•pareth  his  words.'  I'm  sparing  mine  for  the 
present,  but  that  won't  keep  me  from  doing  a 
heap  of  thinking.  .  .  .  Engle,  Weaver,  and 
Murphy.  .  .  .  Maybe  I  can  bust  two  of  these 
cords  at  once — and  fray  the  other  one  a  lit- 
tle." 

Four  men  sat  under  the  lantern  in  Martin 
O'Connor's  tack-room  on  a  Wednesday  night. 
They  spoke  in  low  tones,  for  they  were  en- 
gaged in  running  the  fourth  race  on  Thursday's 
programme. 

"I've  let  it  be  known  in  a  few  places  where 
it'll  do  the  most  good  that  the  mare  can't  pack 
*  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds  and  win  at  a 
mile."  This  was  Weaver  speaking,  a  small, 
wiry  man  with  a  drooping  moustache.  "You 
know  how  talk  gets  around  on  a  race  track — 
tell  the  right  man  and  you  might  as  well  rent 
the  front  page  of  the  morning  paper.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  Fieldmouse  can't  pack  that  weight 
and  win." 

"That's  the  way  the  form  students  will  dope 
it  out,"  said  Al  Engle,  otherwise  the  Sharp- 
shooter, the  smiling,  youthful,  gold-toothed 
blond  who  directed  the  campaigns  and  dictated 
the  policy  of  the  turf  pirates.  "That  much 
weight  will  stop  most  of  'em,  but  let  her  in 
there  under  ninety  pounds  and  Fieldmouse  is  a 
einch.  That  little  sleight-of-hand  stunt  be- 
tween Murphy  and  your  nigger  is  working  fine. 
They  not  only  put  it  over  on  the  judges,  but 

[58] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOB  OBADIAH 


none  of  the  other  owners  are  wise.  I'd  try  it 
myself  some  day  if  I  wasn't  afraid  somebodj 
would  fumble  and  give  the  snap  away. ' ' 

"Huh!"  growled  the  saturnine  O'Connor. 
"Needn't  worry  about  tipping  anything  off  to 
them  judges.  They  're  both  blind.  Here 's  what 
bothers  me:  Old  Man  Curry  is  in  that  same 
race  with  Isaiah. " 

"Well,  what  of  that?"  said  Engle.  "That 
old  fool  is  all  same  as  a  nightmare  to  you, 
ain't  he?" 

"Call  him  a  fool  if  you  want  to,"  was  the 
stubborn  rejoinder,  "but  he  made  an  awful 
sucker  out  of  you  with  that  trick  horse  of  his. 
An  awful  sucker.  If  Old  Man  Curry  is  a  fool, 
there's  a  lot  of  wise  people  locked  up  in  the 
bug  houses.  That's  all  I've  got  to  say!" 

"He's  had  your  goat  ever  since  the  meeting 
opened, ' '  grinned  the  Sharpshooter. 

' '  That 's  all  right, ' '  said  0  'Connor.  ' '  That '« 
a  whole  lot  better  than  my  buying  a  goat  from 
him — for  a  thousand  dollars. ' '  This  by  way  of 
reminding  the  Sharpshooter  of  something  whick 
he  preferred  to  forget.  Engle  reddened. 

"Aw,  what's  the  good  of  chewing  the  fat!" 
interrupted  the  fourth  man  briskly.  This  wa« 
Ab  Mears,  of  whom  it  was  said  that  he  trained 
his  horses  to  look  into  the  betting  ring  on  their 
way  to  the  post  and  to  run  in  accordance  with 
the  figures  they  saw  upon  the  bookmakers' 
slates.  "Let's  not  have  any  arguments,  boys. 
All  little  pals  together,  eh?  ...  Now,  getting 

[59] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


down  to  business,  as  the  fellow  said  when  he 
was  digging  the  well,  Isaiah  is  a  pretty  shifty 
old  selling  plater  when  he 's  at  himself ;  but  you 
know  and  I  know  that  the  best  day  he  ever  saw 
he  couldn't  beat  Fieldmouse  at  a  mile  with  a 
feather  on  her  back.  She'll  walk  home  alone. 
The  most  Isaiah  can  do  is  to  come  second " 

"He'll  be  lucky  if  he  does  that  well,"  inter- 
rupted Engle.  "The  mare  will  be  in  front  of 
him  all  the  way.  .  .  .  Same  old  stuff;  wait  for 
the  closing  betting.  Weaver,  you  keep  on  hol- 
lering your  head  off  about  the  weight ;  it  '11  scare 
the  outsiders  and  they  won't  play  her.  Then,  at 
the  last  minute,  cut  loose  and  load  up  the  books 
with  all  they'll  take." 

"Just  the  same,"  muttered  O'Connor,  "I'd 
feel  a  lot  more  comfortable  if  Curry  wasn't  in 
the  race.  That  old  boy  is  poison,  that's  what 
he  is.  The  last  couple  of  times " 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  rasped  Engle.  "Elisha  was 
the  horse  he  trimmed  us  with — Elisha!  Get 
that  through  your  head.  This  is  Isaiah.  There's 
as  much  difference  in  horses  as  there  is  in 
prophets.  What  you  need  is  one  of  those  port- 
able Japanese  foot  warmers." 

The  paddock  is  the  place  to  go  for  informa- 
tion, particularly  after  the  saddling  bell  rings. 
The  owners  are  usually  on  exhibition  at  that 
time.  Nearly  every  owner  will  answer  a  civil 
question  about  his  horse ;  once  in  a  great  while 
one  of  them  may  answer  truthfully.  In  this 

[60] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOB  OBADIAH 


particular  race  we  are  concerned  with  but  two 
owners,  one  of  whom  told  the  truth. 

Weaver,  rat-eyed  and  furtive,  answered  all 
questions  freely — almost  too  freely. 

"Ye-es,  she's  a  right  nice  little  mare,  but 
they've  weighted  her  out  of  it  to-day.  She 
can't  pack  a  hundred  and  fifteen  and  win.  .  .  . 
That  much  lead  will  stop  a  stake  horse.  Better 
stay  off  her  to-day.  Some  other  time." 

Old  Man  Curry,  grave  and  polite,  also  an- 
swered questions. 

" Isaiah?  Oh,  yes.  Well,  now,  sir,  I'll  tell  you 
'bout  this  hoss  of  mine.  I  figure  he 's  got  a  stav- 
in'  good  chance  to  come  second — a  stavin'  good 
chance.  .  .  .  No,  he  won't  be  first." 

Just  before  the  bugle  blew,  Mose  received  his 
riding  orders. 

"If  that  mare  of  Weaver's  gets  away  in  front, 
don't  you  start  chasing  her.  No  use  in  running 
Isaiah's  head  off  trying  to  ketch  her.  I  want 
you  to  finish  second,  understand?  Isaiah  can 
beat  all  these  other  hosses.  Don't  pay  no  'ten- 
tion  to  the  mare.  Let  her  go." 

Little  Mose  nodded. 

"  'At  Fieldmouse  is  sutny  a  goin'  fool  when 
9ey  bet  stable  money  on  huh,"  said  he.  "Let 
'at  ole  mare  go,  eh?" 

"Exackly,"  said  the  old  man,  "but  be  sure 
you  beat  the  rest  of  'em." 

"Fieldmouse  an'  Murphy,"  said  Mose. 
"Huh-uh!  'At's  a  bad  combination  fo'  us, 

[61] 


OLD   MAN    CUBKY 


boss,  a  ba-ad  combination.  'Membeh  Oba- 
diahf" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  strolled  into  Isaiah's 
stall. 

"Chicken  Liver's  got  it,"  he  whispered,  "I 
saw  Weaver  pass  it  to  him." 

"That's  what  I've  been  waiting  for,  Frank," 
said  Old  Man  Curry.  "Here,  Shanghai!  You 
lead  him  out  on  the  track.  I've  got  business 
with  the  children  of  Israel." 

The  Fieldmouse  money  was  beginning  to  pour 
into  the  ring,  and  the  block  men  were  busy  with 
their  erasers.  Each  time  the  mare's  price  went 
down,  Isaiah's  price  went  up  a  little.  Old  Man 
Curry  drew  out  a  tattered  roll  of  currency  and 
went  from  booth  to  booth,  betting  on  his  horse 
at  four  to  one. 

"Think  you've  got  a  chance  to-day,  old 
man!"  It  was  the  Sharpshooter,  smiling  like 
a  cherub. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Curry,  "I'll  tell  you  'bout 
me;  I'm  always  trying,  so  I've  always  got  a 
chance.  Looks  like  the  weight  ought  to  stop  the 


6 '  That 's  so, "  said  Engle.    '  '  Betting  much  ? ' ' 

' '  Quite  considerable  for  me,  yes.  Isaiah  ain't 
a  trick  hoss,  but  he " 

"Oh,  you  go  to  the  devil!"  said  Engle. 

But  Old  Man  Curry  crossed  the  track  instead. 
His  first  care  was  to  locate  the  negro  known 
as  Chicken  Liver;  this  done,  he  watched  the 
start  of  the  race.  Nine  horses  were  lined  up  at 

[62] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOB  OBADIAH 


the  barrier,  and  at  least  six  of  the  jockeys  were 
manoeuvring  for  a  flying  start.  The  official 
starter,  a  thick-set  man  with  a  long  twisted  nose, 
bellowed  loudly  from  time  to  time. 

"No!  No!  You  can't  break  that  way!  .  .  . 
You,  Murphy!  I'll  fine  you  in  a  minute!  .  .  . 
Get  back  there,  Grogan !  What  did  I  tell  you, 
Murphy  f  .  .  .  Bring  that  horse  up  slow !  Bring 
him  up!  No!  No!  You  can't  break  that  way! " 

Isaiah  stood  perfectly  still  in  the  middle  of 
the  track;  on  either  side  of  him  the  nervous  ani- 
mals charged  at  the  barrier  or  whirled  away 
from  it  in  sudden,  wild  dashes.  The  starter's 
voice  grew  husky  and  his  temper  hot,  but  at 
last  the  horses  were  all  headed  in  the  right  di- 
rection, if  only  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 
Jockey  Murphy,  scenting  a  start,  had  Field- 
mouse  in  motion  even  as  the  elastic  webbing 
shot  into  the  air ;  she  was  in  her  racing  stride 
as  the  starter's  voice  blared  out: 

"You're  off!    Go  on!    Go  on!" 

The  mare,  always  a  quick  breaker,  rushed 
into  the  lead,  Murphy  taking  her  on  an  easy 
slant  to  the  inner  rail.  Isaiah,  swinging  a  bit 
wide  on  the  first  turn,  settled  down  to  work,  and 
at  the  half-mile  pole  was  leading  the  pursuit, 
taking  the  dust  which  Fieldmouse  kicked  up  five 
lengths  in  front. 

Chicken  Liver,  watching  Murphy  skim  the 
rail  into  the  home  stretch,  shuffled  his  feet  in 
an  ecstasy  of  exultation. 

"Come  home,  baby!"  he  shouted.  "Come 
[63] 


OLD    MAN    CUKKY 


'long  home!    You  de  bes'  li'l  ole  hawss — uht" 

Something  small  and  hard  jammed  violently 
into  the  pit  of  Chicken  Liver 's  stomach,  and  his 
song  of  victory  ended  in  an  amazed  grunt.  Old 
Man  Curry  was  glaring  at  him  and  pressing 
the  muzzle  of  a  forty-five-calibre  revolver 
against  the  exact  spot  where  the  third  button 
of  Chicken  Liver's  vest  would  have  been  had  he 
owned  such  a  garment. 

"Drop  that  weight  pad,  nigger,  or  I'll  blow 
you  inside  out!  Drop  it!" 

Chicken  Liver  leaped  backward  with  a  howl 
of  terror.  The  next  instant  he  was  well  on  his 
way  to  the  Weaver  barn,  supplication  floating 
over  his  shoulder. 

"Don't  shoot,  misteh!  Fo'  de  Lawd's  sake, 
don't  shoot!" 

Old  Man  Curry  picked  up  the  weight  pad  and 
started  for  the  gate.  He  arrived  in  time  to  see 
the  smile  on  Murphy's  face  as  he  swung  under 
the  wire,  three  lengths  in  front  of  Isaiah,  the 
other  horses  trailing  far  in  the  rear.  Murphy 
was  still  smiling  broadly  when  he  brought  Field- 
mouse  back  into  the  chalked  circle,  a  privileged 
space  reserved  for  winners. 

"Judges!"  piped  the  jockey  shrilly,  touching 
the  visor  of  his  cap  with  his  whip.  Keceiving 
the  customary  nod,  Murphy  slid  to  the  ground 
and  attacked  the  cinch.  It  was  then  that 
Chicken  Liver  should  have  stepped  forward 
with  his  blanket — then  that  the  deft  transfer 
should  have  taken  place,  but  Chicken  Liver, 

[64] 


PLAYING  EVEN   FOR   OBADIAH 


where  was  he?  Murphy's  anxious  eyes  trav- 
elled around  the  wide  circle  of  owners  and  hos- 
tlers, and  his  smile  faded  into  a  nervous  grin. 

Now,  after  each  race  a  few  thousand  impa- 
tient people  must  wait  for  the  official  announce- 
ment— the  one,  two,  three,  without  which  no 
tickets  can  be  cashed — and  the  official  announce- 
ment must  wait  upon  the  weighing  of  the  riders. 
For  this  reason  no  time  is  wasted  in  the  cere- 
mony. 

" Hurry  up,  son,"  said  the  presiding  judge* 
"We're  waiting  on  you." 

Murphy  fumbled  with  the  strap,  playing  des- 
perately for  time.  As  he  tugged,  his  eyes  were 
searching  for  the  missing  negro.  He  caught 
one  glimpse  of  Weaver's  face,  yellow  where  it 
was  not  white ;  he,  too,  was  raking  the  horizon 
for  Chicken  Liver. 

" What's  the  matter  with  you,  Murphy?"  de- 
manded the  judge.  "Do  you  want  help  with 
that  tack?" 

"No,   sir,"   faltered  the   jockey.     "Th-this 

thing  sticks  somehow.  I'll  git  it  in  a  minute. 
j >> 

Old  Man  Curry  marched  through  the  ring  and 
up  the  steps  to  the  platform  of  the  judges* 
stand,  and  when  Weaver  saw  what  he  carried 
in  his  hand  he  became  a  very  sick  man  indeed 
— and  looked  it.  Al  Engle  backed  away  into 
the  crowd  and  Martin  O'Connor  followed  him, 
mumbling  incoherently. 

"Maybe  this  is  what  Murphy  is  waiting  for, 
[65] 


OLD   MAN    CUEKY 


judges,"  said  Old  Man  Curry  with  marked 
cheerfulness.  " Maybe  he  don't  want  to  git  on 
the  scales  without  it." 

"Eh!"  said  the  presiding  judge.  "What  is 
that!" 

"Looks  like  a  weight  pad  to  me,"  said  Old 
Man  Curry,  "with  quite  a  mess  of  lead  in  it. 
Yes,  it  is  a  weight  pad. '  * 

"Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "I'll  tell  you  'bout 
that :  Weaver 's  nigger  had  it  smuggled  under 
a  blanket,  but  he  dropped  it  and  I  picked  it 
up.  Maybe  Weaver  thought  the  nigger  was  a 
better  weight  packer  than  the  mare.  I  don't 
know.  Maybe ' ' 

"Young  man,"  commanded  the  presiding 
judge,  "that'll  do  you.  Take  your  tackle  and 
get  on  the  scales.  Lively  now!" 

Murphy  cast  one  despairing  glance  about  him 
and  slouched  to  his  undoing.  The  judge,  weight 
pad  in  hand,  followed  him  into  the  weighing 
room  underneath  the  stand.  He  was  back  again 
almost  instantly,  and  his  voice  had  an  angry 
ring. 

"Change  those  numbers!"  said  he.  "The 
mare  is  disqualified.  Isaiah,  first;  Eainbow, 
second ;  put  the  fourth  horse  third.  Mr.  Weaver, 
come  up  here,  sir!  And  where 's  that  nigger? 
I  want  him  too.  Murphy,  I'll  see  you  later. 
.  .  .  Don't  go  away,  Mr.  Curry.  I  need  you." 

"That's  what  I  call  getting  hunk  with  a 
vengeance,  old-timer."  Thus  the  Bald-faced 

[66] 


PLAYING  EVEN  FOR  OBADIAH 


Kid,  at  the  door  of  Old  Man  Curry's  tack-room. 
"You  cleaned  up  right,  didn't  you?  Weaver's 
ruled  off  for  life,  and  his  horses  with  him — • 
he  can't  even  sell  'em  to  another  stable.  Mur- 
phy's lost  his  license.  Chicken  Liver's  out  of 
a  job.  Engle  and  his  bunch  are  in  the  clear, 
but  they  lost  a  lot  of  money  on  the  mare.  Regu- 
lar old  blunderbuss,  ain't  you?  Didn't  miss  any- 
body." 

"Son,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  removing  his 
spectacles,  "Solomon  had  it  right.  He  says: 
1  Whoso  diggeth  a  pit  shall  fall  therein.'  Weaver 
dug  one  big  enough  to  hold  his  entire  stable. 
And  that  reminds  me :  I  bet  fifty  dollars  for 
you  to-day,  and  here's  the  two  hundred.  Run 
it  up  if  you  can,  but  remember  what  Solomon 
says  about  that:  'He  that  maketh  haste  to  be 
rich  shall  not  be  innocent.'  " 

"I'll  take  a  chance,"  said  the  Bald-faced 
Bad,  reaching  for  the  money. 


[67] 


BY  A  HAIR 


SON,"  said  Old  Man   Curry,  "what's  on 
your  mind  besides  your  hat!    You  ain't 
said  a  word  for  as  much  as  two  minutes, 
and  any  time  you  keep  still  that  long 
there  must  be  something  wrong." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid's  glance  rested  for  an 
instant  upon  the  kindly  features  of  the  patri- 
arch of  the  Jungle  Circuit,  then  flickered  away 
down  the  line  of  stables  where  other  horsemen 
and  race-track  followers  were  sunning  them- 
selves and  waiting  the  summons  to  the  noon 
meal. 

Old  Man  Curry,  his  eyes  half  closed,  a  straw 
in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  the  brim  of  his 
slouch  hat  resting  upon  the  bridge  of  his  nose, 
seemed  not  to  be  conscious  of  this  brief  but 
piercing  scrutiny.  As  usual  with  him,  there 
was  about  this  venerable  person  a  beguiling  air 
of  innocence  and  confidence  in  his  fellow  man, 
a  simple  attitude  of  trustfulness  not  entirely 
borne  out  by  his  method  of  handling  a  racing 
stable.  Certain  dishonest  horsemen  and  book- 
makers were  beginning  to  suspect  that  Old 

[68] 


BY    A    HAIR 


Man  Curry  was  smarter  than  he  looked.  The 
Bald-faced  Kid  had  never  entertained  any 
doubts  upon  this  subject.  He  remained  silent, 
the  thin  edge  of  a  grin  playing  about  his  lips. 

'  'I  hope  you  ain  't  been  trying  to  show  any  tin- 
horn gamblers  the  error  of  their  ways  by  ruin- 
ing 'em  financially, "  said  the  old  man,  one 
drowsy  eye  upon  the  Kid's  face.  "That's  one 
of  the  things  what  just  naturally  can't  be  done. 
Steady  growth  is  the  thing  to  fat  a  bank  roll, 
Frank.  I'm  about  to  tell  you  how  you  can  mul- 
tiply yours  considerable.  Last  time  you  was 
here  you  had  two  hundred  dollars,  spoiled 
Egyptian  money " 

"Oh,  I  guess  it  wasn't  so  darn  badly  spoiled 
at  that!"  interrupted  the  Kid.  "I  didn't  have 
any  trouble  getting  rid  of  it."  He  grinned 
sheepishly.  "Your  friend  Solomon  called  the 
turn  on  the  get-rich-quick  stuff.  'He  that  mak- 
eth  haste' — what's  the  rest  of  it,  old-timer?" 

"  'He  that  maketh  haste  to  be  rich  shall  not 
be  innocent,'  "  quoted  Old  Man  Curry,  rolling 
out  the  syllables  in  sonorous  procession.  "But 
I  reckon  not  being  rich  is  worrying  you  more 
than  not  being  innocent.  Who  took  the  roll 
away  from  you?" 

"Squeaking  Henry  got  a  piece  of  it,"  ad- 
mitted the  Kid.  "Did  you  ever  play  twenty- 
one — Black  Jack,  old-timer?" 

Old  Man  Curry  shook  his  head. 

"I  never  monkeyed  much  with  cards,"  said 
[69] 


OLD   MA1T    CUEBY 


he,  "but  I've  seen  the  game  played  some — 
when  I  was  younger. " 

"Well,"  said  the  Kid  mournfully,  " Squeak- 
ing Henry  and  a  couple  of  his  friends  rung  in 
some  marked  cards — on  my  deal.  Of  course 
those  burglars  could  take  one  flash  at  the  top 
of  the  deck  and  know  just  when  to  draw  and 
when  not  to.  I  sat  up  there  like  a  flathead  and 
let  'em  clean  me.  What  tipped  it  off  was  that 
when  I  was  down  to  my  last  smack,  with  a  face 
card  in  sight  and  a  face  card  in  the  hole,  Henry 
drew  to  twenty  and  caught  an  ace.  The  mangy 
little  crook!  Oh,  well,  easy  come,  easy  go.  I'd 
have  lost  it  some  other  way,  I  guess.  But,  say, 
what  was  this  proposition  of  yours  about  fat- 
tening the  bank  roll!  I've  got  seven  dollars 
between  me  and  the  wolf,  and  he's  so  close  that 
I  can  smell  his  breath." 

"Seeing  that  you  ain't  got  any  more  judg- 
ment than  that,"  was  Old  Man  Curry's  com- 
ment, "I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  tell  you." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  the  Kid,  "if  that's  the 
way  you  feel  about  it — but  maybe  I've  got  some 
information  I  could  trade  you  for  it." 

"I  never  swapped  hosses  blind,"  said  Old 
Man  Curry. 

"I  won't  ask  you  to,"  said  the  Bald-faced 
Kid.  "It's  no  news  that  Engle's  bunch  is  out 
for  your  scalp,  is  it?" 

"No-o,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  kind  of  sus- 
picioned  as  much." 

"They're  after  you  strong,  old-timer.  First 
[70] 


BY   A   HAIB 


you  walloped  'em  with  Elisha,  then  you  dou- 
ble-crossed 'em  with  Elijah,  and  then  you  got 
Weaver  and  Murphy  ruled  off.  At  first  Engle 
thought  you  was  only  ignorant  but  shot  full  of 
blind  luck.  Lately  he  ain't  been  so  sure  about 
the  ignorance.  Engle  hates  to  give  anybody 
else  credit  for  being  wise  to  the  angles  around 
this  track." 

" Solomon  said  something  about  him,"  re- 
marked Old  Man  Curry  gravely. 

"Go  ahead;  pull  it!"  said  the  Kid. 

"  'Seest  thou  a  man  wise  in  his  own  con- 
ceit ?  There  is  more  hope  of  a  fool  than  of  him. ' 
That's  what  Solomon  thought  about  the  Engle 
family,  son." 

"Well,  if  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  lay  any  fancy 
odds  that  Engle  is  a  fool,"  warned  the  Kid. 
"There's  one  baby  that  you've  got  to  figure  on 
every  minute.  You've  got  a  horse  in  your  barn 
that  Engle  is  watching  like  a  hawk." 

"Elisha?" 

' l  Elisha.    When  does  he  start  the  next  time  t "  ,/ ' 

" In  the  Handicap." 

"The  Handicap,  eh?  You  must  think  pretty 
well  of  him.  Some  good  horses  in  that  race. 
Well,  there  won't  be  a  price  on  him  worth  tak- 
ing; you  can  bet  on  that." 

Old  Man  Curry  opened  his  eyes  wide  for  the 
first  time. 

"No  price  on  him!  Nonsense!  He's  a  sell- 
ing plater  going  up  agin  so-called  stake  horses ! 
No  price!  Huh!" 

[71] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


' '  Even  so,  nevertheless,  notwithstanding,  and 
but,"  said  the  Kid  with  exasperating  calmness, 
"you  won't  get  a  price  on  him.  I  can  quote 
some  myself.  The  voice  of  wisdom  is  speak- 
ing to  you." 

11  But  he  ain't  never  done  anything  that  would 
justify  starting  him  with  stake  bosses,"  argued 
Old  Man  Curry,  feeling  in  his  pockets  for  his 
fine-cut. 

"Is  there  any  law  to  prevent  'em  figuring 
that  he  might?'' 

"But  why  is  Engle  worrying  about  the  price 
on  my  bosses?"  demanded  Curry. 

"Maybe  to  get  even  for  what  you've  done  to 
him.  Maybe  because  he's  got  some  sort  of  an 
agreement  with  Abe  Goldmark.  You  know 
Abe?" 

"By  sight,  son,  by  sight.  And  that's  the  only 
way  I  want  to  know  him." 

'  '  You  and  me  both, ' '  said  the  Kid  quickly.  ' i  I 
don't  like  that  fellow's  face  or  the  way  he  wears 
it,  but  you  can't  afford  to  overlook  him  any 
more  than  you  can  overlook  a  rattlesnake. 
Goldmark  is  another  one  of  the  wise  boys.  He 
runs  one  book,  but  he 's  under  cover  with  an  in- 
terest in  five  or  six  more.  He  comes  pretty 
near  being  a  combination  in  restraint  of  trade, 
Goldmark  does.  The  Handicap  is  going  to  be 
the  big  betting  race  of  the  meeting.  Goldmark 
has  been  tipped  to  keep  his  eye  out  for  Elisha. 
On  Elisha 's  record  he  ought  to  be  15  or  20 
to  1." 

[72] 


BY    A   HAIR 


"Longer  than  that!"  said  Old  Man  Curry. 

"I'm  figuring  these  syndicate  books,"  said 
the  Kid.  "He'll  open  around  3  to  1  and  stay 
there  whether  there's  a  dollar  bet  on  him  or 
not.  False  odds?  Certainly,  but  they're  tak- 
ing no  chances  on  you.  They  figure  you  won't 
be  trying  at  that  price.  And  another  thing: 
This  same  Squeaking  Henry,  this  marked-card 
gambler,  has  gone  to  work  for  Goldmark.  Three 
dollars  a  day  for  what  he  can  find  out.  Is  this 
information  worth  anything  to  you?" 

"It  might  be,  son, ' '  said  Old  Man  Curry.  ' ' It 
might  be.  I  '11  let  you  know  later  on. ' ' 

"On  the  level,"  said  the  Kid,  "you  don't  fig- 
ure that  Elisha  has  got  a  chance  to  win  that 
race — not  with  Eegulator  and  Black  Bill  and 
Miss  Amber  in  it?  They're  no  Salvators,  I  ad- 
mit, still  they're  the  best  we  ever  see  in  this 
part  of  the  country.  Black  Bill  is  a  demon 
over  a  distance,  old-timer.  He  won  that  two- 
mile  race  last  winter  at  Santa  Anita.  Elisha 
has  never  gone  more  than  a  mile  and  an  eighth, 
and  this  is  a  mile  and  a  half.  Honest,  now,  you 
don't  think  he  can  beat  horses  like  Black  Bill 
and  Regulator,  do  you?" 

"Son,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  "I  never  think 
anything  about  a  race  until  the  night  before. 
That's  time  enough." 

"But  suppose  they  make  him  a  short  price! 
You  wouldn't  cut  him  loose  and  let  him  make  a 
showing  that  would  spoil  him  as  a  betting  prop- 
osition?" 

[73] 


OLD   MAN    CUKEY 


"Well,  maybe  he  won't  be  a  short  price,"  said 
the  old  man.  "You  can't  tell  a  thing  about  it. 
It 's  this  way  with  bookmakers :  Once  in  a  while 
they  change  their  minds,  and  that's  where  an 
honest  hossman  gets  a  crack  at  'em.  Yes,  they 
get  to  fooling  with  their  little  pieces  of  chalk. 
I  don't  reckon  Elisha  will  be  less'n  20  to  1. 
There  goes  the  gong  at  the  boarding  house. 
Might  as  well  eat  with  me  and  nurse  that  seven 
dollars  all  you  can." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  rose  with  alacrity  and 
bowed  low,  his  hand  upon  his  heart. 

"You  are  the  ideal  host,"  said  he,  "and  I 
am  the  ideal  hostee!  I  could  eat  a  horse  and 
chase  the  driver.  Lead  the  way,  old-timer!" 

The  money  which  Squeaking  Henry  won  by 
reason  of  the  marked  cards  did  him  very  little 
good,  remaining  in  his  possession  barely  long 
enough  to  cause  his  vest  pocket  to  sag  a  trifle. 
He  lost  it  in  a  friendly  game  with  the  friends 
who  were  clever  enough  to  plan  the  raid  on 
the  Bald-faced  Kid's  bank  roll,  using  Henry  as 
a  tool,  much  as  the  coastwise  Chinaman  uses  a 
cormorant  in  his  fishing  operations.  Stripped 
of  his  opulence,  Squeaking  Henry  found  him- 
self flat  on  the  market  again. 

Henry  was  a  tout,  hence  an  easy  and  extem- 
poraneous liar,  but,  alas,  a  clumsy  one.  He 
lacked  the  Bald-faced  Kid's  finesse;  lacked  also 
his  tireless  energy,  his  insatiable  curiosity,  and 
the  thin  vein  of  pure  metal  which  lay  under- 
neath the  base.  There  was  nothing  about 

[74] 


BY   A   HAIR 


Squeaking  Henry  which  was  not  for  sale  cheap ; 
body  and  soul,  he  was  on  life's  bargain  counter 
among  the  remnants,  and  Abe  Goldmark,  ex- 
amining the  lot,  found  a  price  tag  labelled  three 
dollars  a  day. 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Henry.  "I  get  you,  Mr. 
Goldmark.  You  want  me  to  stick  around  Old 
Man  Curry's  barn  and  pump  him." 

" Never  mind  the  pumping,"  said  Goldmark. 
'  '  The  less  you  talk  and  the  fewer  questions  you 
ask  the  better.  Curry  is  no  fool,  understand. 
He  might  be  just  as  smart  as  you  are.  Judg- 
ing by  the  number  of  good  things  he 's  put  over 
at  this  meeting,  he's  smarter.  I  want  to  know 
who  calls  on  him,  who  his  stable  connections 
are,  who  he " 

"Aw,  he  ain't  got  no  stable  connections!" 
said  Squeaking  Henry  in  great  disgust.  "He 
plays  the  game  alone,  and  when  he  wants  to 
bet  he  walks  into  the  ring  and  goes  to  it.  Never 
had  a  betting  commissioner  in  his  life,  and  if 
you  want  to  know  when  the  stable  money  is 
down,  all  you've  got  to  do  is  watch  Curry. 
Cinch!" 

"Oh,  a  cinch  is  it?"  sneered  Goldmark. 
"Then  I'm  making  a  big  mistake  to  hire  you  to 
find  out  things.  You  know  everything  already, 
eh?" 

"Well,  I  guess  not  everything,"  mumbled  the 
abashed  Henry. 

"That's  my  guess,  too!"  snapped  Goldmark. 
"I'm  paying  you  to  watch  that  Curry  stable; 

[75] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


get  me  ?  And  I  want  you  to  watch  it !  I  want 
to  know  everything  that  happens  around  there 
from  now  on,  understand  I  Particularly,  I  want 
a  line  on  this  Elisha  horse.  Know  him  when 
you  see  him!" 

"S-s-sure!"  said  Squeaking  Henry.  "Sure 
I  do !  Big,  leggy  bay  with  a  white  spot  on  his 
forehead  about  the  size  of  a  nickel.  Do  I  know 
him?  Well!" 

"I  want  to  know  when  Curry  works  him — • 
how  far  and  how  fast.  I  want  to  know  what  the 
old  man  thinks  of  his  chances  in  the  Handicap. 
You  can  get  me  at  the  hotel  every  night  after 
dinner.  Better  use  the  telephone.  In  case  you 
slip  up  or  miss  me,  send  word  by  Al  Engle." 

"All  right,"  said  Henry. 

"And  say,"  Goldmark  actually  grinned,  "I 
hear  this  Curry  is  a  soft-hearted  old  fellow. 
Why  couldn't  you  tell  him  a  hard-luck  story 
and  get  to  sleep  in  his  tack-room  nights!  Then 
you'd  be  right  on  the  ground.  Try  a  hard-luck 
story  on  him.  The  one  you  sprung  on  me  wasn't 
so  bad." 

"H-m-m-m,"  mused  Henry.  "I  might,  and 
that's  a  fact.  He  ain't  a  bad  guy,  Old  Man 
Curry  ain't.  He  stakes  the  hustlers  every  once 
in  a  while." 

"Well,"  said  Groldmark  insinuatingly,  "if  he 
should  be  such  a  sucker  as  to  stake  you,  don't 
forget  you  was  on  my  pay  roll  first;  that's  all 
I  ask." 

"Aw,  whadda  you  take  me  for?"  growled 
[76] 


BY   A   HAIR 


Squeaking  Henry,  virtuously  indignant  at  the 
barest  hint  of  duplicity.  "I  ain't  that  kind  of 
a  guy." 

Since  the  tout  lives  by  his  wits  and  his  tongue, 
he  is  never  without  a  hard-luck  story — a  de- 
pendable one,  tried,  but  seldom,  if  ever,  true. 
He  circles  human  nature,  searching  for  the 
weak  point  and,  having  found  it,  delivers  the 
attack.  Squeaking  Henry  knew  the  armour 
plate  to  be  thinnest  on  man's  sympathetic  side, 
and  the  hard-luck  story  which  he  told  Old  Man 
Curry  would  have  melted  the  heart  of  a  golf 
club  handicapper.  The  story  was  overworked 
and  threadbare  in  spots,  but  it  brought  an  im- 
mediate result. 

"And  that's  how  I'm  fixed,"  whined  Squeak- 
ing Henry  in  conclusion.  "I  think  I  can  rustle 
the  eats  all  right  enough — one  meal  a  day  any- 
way— and  if  I  just  had  a  place  to  sleep " 

He  paused  and  regarded  Old  Man  Curry  ex- 
pectantly. 

"Come  in,  son,"  said  the  patriarch.  A  wiser 
man  than  Squeaking  Henry  might  have  found 
Curry's  manner  almost  too  friendly.  "Come 
in.  There's  a  spare  cot  here  and  you're  wel- 
come to  it.  Mose,  my  little  nigger,  sleeps  here 
too,  but  I  reckon  you  won't  mind  him.  He's 
dean." 

Strange  to  say,  it  was  Jockey  Moseby  Jones 
who  minded.  He  minded  very  much,  in  plain 
English,  waylaying  Old  Man  Curry  as  he  made 

[77] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


the  rounds  of  the  stalls  that  night,  lantern  in 
hand. 

"This  yer  Squawkin'  Henry,  boss,  he's  a  no- 
good  hound.  He's  no  good  a-a-atall.  They 
ketched  him  at  Butte  last  year  ringin'  in  hawss 
dice  on  'e  crap  game  'mong  friends  an*  'ey  jus* 
nachelly  sunk  his  floatin'  ribs  an'  kicked  him 
out  on  his  haid.  Thass  all  they  done  to  him, 
Mist7  Curry.  Betteh  watch  him  clost,  else  he'll 
steal  'em  gol'  nllin's  outen  yo'  teeth!" 

"You  know  him,  do  you,  Mose?"  asked  Old 
Man  Curry. 

"Do  I  knows  him!"  ejaculated  the  little 
negro.  "I  knows  him  well  'nough  to  wish  yo' 
hadn't  'vited  him  to  do  his  floppin'  in  yo'  tack- 
room  ! ' J 

"Ah-hah!"  said  Old  Man  Curry  reflectively. 
"Mose,  I  reckon  you  never  heard  what  Job 
said?" 

Jockey  Moseby  Jones  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

6  *  Heah  it  comes  again ! "  he  murmured.  '  '  No, 
boss ;  he  said  such  a  many  things  I  kain  't  seem 
to  keep  track  of  'em  all.  Whut  he  say  now?" 

"Something  about  the  wise  being  taken  in 
their  own  craftiness;  I've  forgotten  the  exact 
words." 

"Umph!  Sho'lly  yo'  don't  call  Squawkin' 
Henry  wise?" 

"No-o,  but  he  may  have  wise  friends.  Some- 
how I've  sort  of  been  expecting  this  visitor, 
Mose.  You  heard  him  tell  about  how  bad  off 
bis  mother  is.  It  seems  a  shame  not  to  accom- 

[78] 


BY    A   HAIR 


modate  him,  when  all  he  wants  is  a  place  to 
sleep — and  some  information  on  the  side." 

"Information,  boss?" 

"Well,  I  can't  exactly  swear  to  it,  Mose,  but 
I  think  tJie  children  of  Israel  have  sent  this 
Henry  person  among  us  to  spy  out  the  land. 
Tnat's  a  trick  they  learned  a  long  time  ago, 
after  they  got  out  of  Egypt.  Joshua  taught  it 
to  'em.  Ever  since  then  they  don't  take  any 
more  chances  than  they  can  help.  They  al- 
ways want  to  know  what  the  other  fellow  is 
doing — and  it's  a  pretty  good  system  at  that. 
Being  as  things  are  the  way  they  are,  a  spy  in 
camp,  etcetry,  mebbe  what  hoss  talk  is  done 
had  better  be  done  by  me.  You  sabe,  Mose?" 

"Humph!"  sniffed  the  little  jockey.  "I  got 
you  long  ago,  boss,  lo-ong  ago!" 

Al  Engle,  sometimes  known  as  the  Sharp- 
shooter, horse  owner  and  recognised  head  of  a 
small  but  busy  band  of  turf  pirates,  was  leav- 
ing his  stable  at  seven-thirty  on  a  Wednesday 
evening,  intending  to  proceed  by  automobile 
to  the  brightly  lighted  district.  Sleek,  blond, 
youthful  in  appearance,  without  betraying 
wrinkle  or  line,  Engle 's  innocent  exterior  had 
been  his  chief  dependence  in  his  touting  days. 
He  seemed,  on  the  surface,  to  be  everything 
which  he  was  not. 

As  he  stepped  forth  from  the  shadow  of  the 
stable  awning  a  hand  plucked  at  his  sleeve. 

"It's  me — Henry,"  said  a  voice.  "I've  got 
[79] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


a  message  for  Goldmark — couldn't  catch  him 
on  the  phone." 

" Shoot  it!"  said  Engle. 

"Tell  him  that  Elisha  has  gone  dead  lame — 
can't  hardly  rest  his  foot  on  the  ground." 

"That'll  do  for  Sweeney!"  said  the  Sharp- 
shooter. *  '  Elisha  worked  fine  this  morning.  I 
clocked  him  myself." 

"But  that  was  this  morning,"  argued 
Squeaking  Henry.  "He  must  have  bowed  a 
tendon  or  something.  His  left  foreleg  is  in 
awful  shape." 

"Are  you  sure  it's  Elisha?"  demanded 
Engle. 

* '  Come  and  see  for  yourself.  You  know  the 
horse.  Owned  him  for  a  few  weeks,  didn't  you! 
Curry  is  working  on  his  leg  now.  You  can  peek 
in  at  the  door  of  the  stall  and  see  for  yourself. 
He  won't  even  know  you're  there." 

Together  they  crossed  the  dark  space  under 
the  trees,  heading  for  a  thin  ribbon  of  light 
which  streamed  from  beneath  the  awning  of 
Curry's  barn.  Somewhere,  close  at  hand,  a 
piping  voice  was  lifted  in  song : 

"On  'e  dummy,  on  'e  dummy  line; 
Rise  an'  shine  an'  pay  my  fine; 
Rise  an'  shi-i-ine  an'  pay  my  fi-i-ine, 
Ridin'  on  'e  dummy,  on  'e  dummy,  dummy 
line." 

"What's  that?"  ejaculated  Engle,  pausing. 
"Aw,  that's  only  Curry's  little  nigger,  Mose. 
[80] 


BY   A  HAIR 


He's  always  singing  or  whistling  or  some- 
thing!" 

"I  hope  he  chokes  I"  said  Engle,  advancing 
cautiously. 

The  stall  door  was  almost  closed,  but  by  ap- 
plying his  eye  to  the  crack  Engle  could  see  the 
interior.  Old  Man  Curry  was  kneeling  in  the 
straw,  dipping  bandages  in  a  bucket  of  hot  wa- 
ter. The  horse  was  watching  him,  ears  pricked 
nervously. 

"If  this  ain't  tough  luck,  I  don't  know  what 
is!"  Old  Man  Curry  was  talking  to  himself, 
his  voice  querulous  and  complaining.  "Tough 
luck — yes,  sir!  Tough  for  you,  'Lisha,  and 
tough  for  me.  Job  knew  something  when  he 
said  that  man  born  of  woman  is  of  few  days 
and  full  of  trouble.  Yes,  indeed!  Here  I  had 
you  right  on  edge,  and  ready  to — whoa,  boy! 
Stand  still,  there!  I  ain't  goin'  to  hurt  ye, 
'Lisha.  What's  the  matter  with  ye,  anyway? 
Stand  still!" 

The  horse  backed  away  on  three  legs,  snort- 
ing with  indignation.  Engle  had  seen  enough. 
He  withdrew  swiftly,  nor  did  he  pause  to 
chuckle  until  he  was  fifty  yards  from  Curry's 
barn. 

* t  Well, ' '  said  Squeaking  Henry, ' '  it  was  him, 
wasn't  it?" 

"Sure  it  was  him,  and  he's  got  a  pretty  badly 
strained  tendon,  too.  At  first  I  thought  the 
old  fox  might  be  trying  to  palm  off  one  of  his 
other  cripples  on  you,  but  that  was  Elisha  all 

[81] 


OLD   MAN    CUEKY 


right  enough.  Yes,  he's  through  for  about  a 
month  or  so." 

" That's  what  I  figure,"  said  Henry.  "The 
old  man,  though,  he 's  got  his  heart  set  on  start- 
ing Elisha  in  the  Handicap  next  Saturday.  He 
thinks  maybe  he  can  dope  him  up  so 's  he  won 't 
feel  the  soreness." 

"In  a  mile  and  a  half  race?"  said  Engle. 
"I  hope  he  tries  it!  He'll  just  about  ruin  that 
skate  for  life  if  he  does.  Five-eighths,  yes,  but 
a  mile  and  a  half  1  No  chance ! ' ' 

"You  11  tell  Goldmark?" 

' '  Yes,  I  '11  tell  him.    So  long. ' ' 

Engle  swung  away  through  the  dark  and 
Squeaking  Henry  watched  him  until  he  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  gloom. 

"That  being  the  case,"  said  he,  "and  Elisha 
on  the  bum,  I  guess  I'll  take  a  night  off.  This 
Sherlock  Holmes  stuff  is  wearing  on  the 
nerves." 

Al  Engle  delivered  the  message,  giving  it  a 
strong  backing  of  personal  opinion. 

"No,  Abe,  it's  all  right,  I  tell  you.  It's 
straight.  I've  seen  the  horse  myself,  ain't  I? 
Know  him?  Man  alive,  I  had  the  skate  in  my 
barn  for  nearly  a  month!  I  ought  to  know 
him.  Why,  there's  no  question  about  it.  He's 
so  lame  he  can  hardly  touch  his  foot  to  the 
ground.  If  he  starts,  he's  a  million  to  one  to 
win;  a  hundred  to  one  he  won't  even  finish. 
Certainly  I'm  sure!  You  can  go  broke  on  it. 
Don't  talk  to  me !  Haven't  I  seen  strained  ten- 

[82] 


BY   A   HAIS 


dons  before?  Next  to  a  broken  leg,  it's  the 
worst  thing  that  can  happen  to  a  race  horse." 

While  Engle  was  closeted  with  GFoldmark,  Old 
Man  Curry  was  entertaining  another  nocturnal 
visitor.  It  was  the  Bald-faced  Kid,  breathless, 
his  brow  beaded  with  perspiration. 

"  Just  got  the  tip  that  Elisha  has  gone  lame," 
said  the  Kid.  "I  was  in  the  crap  game  over  at 
Devlin's  barn  when  Squeaking  Henry  came  in 
with  the  news.  I  ran  all  the  way  over  here." 

"Oho,  so  it  was  Henry,  eh?"  Old  Man  Curry 
rumbled  behind  his  whiskers  —  his  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  laugh.  "Henry,  eh?  Well,  now,  it  'a 
this  way  'bout  Henry.  He's  better  than  a  news- 
paper because  it  don't  cost  a  cent  to  subscribe 
to  him.  He's  got  the  loosest  jaw  and  the  long- 
est tongue  in  the  world." 

"But  on  the  level,"  said  the  Kid  earnestly, 
"is  Elisha  lame?" 

"Come  and  see  for  yourself,"  said  Old  Man 
Curry,  taking  his  lantern  from  the  peg.  After 
an  interval  they  returned  to  the  tack-room,  the 
Bald-faced  Kid  shaking  his  head  commiserat- 


"That  would  have  been  rotten  luck  if  it  had 
happened  to  a  dog  !  '  '  said  he.  "And  the  Handi- 
cap coming  on  and  all." 

*  i  There  '11  be  a  better  opening  price  than  3  to 
1  now,  I  reckon,  '  '  said  Old  Man  Curry  grimly. 

"Opening  price!"  ejaculated  the  Kid, 
startled.  "Say,  what  are  you  talking  about? 
You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you're  thinking  of 

[83] 


OLD   MAIsT    CUEKY 


starting  him  with  his  leg  in  this  shape,  old- 
timer?" 

"  'M — well,  no,  not  in  this  shape,  exackly." 

"But  Lordy,  man,  the  Handicap  is  on  Satur- 
day and  here  it  is  Wednesday  night  already. 
You  can't  fix  up  a  leg  like  that  in  two  days. 
You're  going  some  if  you  get  it  straightened  out 
in  two  weeks.  Of  course,  you  can  shoot  the 
leg  full  of  cocaine  and  he'll  run  on  it  a  little 
ways,  but  asking  him  to  go  a  mile  and  a  half 
• — confound  it,  old-timer!  That's  murdering  a 
game  horse.  You're  liable  to  have  a  hopeless 
cripple  on  your  hands  when  it's  over.  I  tell 
you,  if  Elisha  was  mine " 

"You'd  own  a  real  race  hoss,  son,"  said  Old 
Man  Curry.  ' '  Now  run  along,  Frank,  and  don 't 
try  to  teach  your  grandad  to  suck  aigs.  I  was 
doctoring  hosses  before  you  come  to  this  coun- 
try at  all,  and  I'm  going  to  doctor  this  one  some 
more  and  then  go  to  bed." 

Shortly  thereafter  the  good  horse  Elisha  en- 
tertained a  visitor  who  brought  no  lantern  with 
him,  but  operated  in  the  dark,  swiftly  and  si- 
lently. Later  a  door  creaked,  there  were  muf- 
fled footfalls  under  the  stable  awning  and  one 
resounding  thump,  as  it  might  have  been  a  shod 
hoof  striking  a  doorsill.  Still  later  Squeaking 
Henry,  returning  to  his  post  of  duty,  saw  a  light 
in  Elisha 's  stall  and  looked  in  at  Old  Man  Curry 
applying  cold  compresses  to  the  left  foreleg  of 
a  gaunt  bay  horse  with  a  small  splash  of  white 
in  the  centre  of  the  forehead. 

[84] 


BY    A   HAIR 


"How  they  coming,  uncle V9  asked  Henry. 
"Oh,  about  the  same,  I  reckon,"  was  the  re- 

piy- 

"You  might  as  well  hit  the  hay.  You Ve  been 
fooling  with  that  leg  since  dark,  but  you'll  never 
get  the  bird  ready  to  fly  by  Saturday." 

"  *  Wisdom  crieth  without,'  "  quoted  Old  Man 
Curry  sententiously.  "  'She  uttereth  her  voice 
in  the  street.'  " 

"Quit  kidding  yourself,"  argued  Henry, 
"and  look  how  sore  he  is.  You're  in  big  luck 
if  he  ain't  lame  a  whole  month  from  now." 

"Well,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  "Solomon  says 
that  the  righteous  man  regardeth  the  life  of  his 
beast." 

"He  does,  eh?"  Squeaking  Henry  chuckled 
unpleasantly.  "There's  a  whole  lot  of  things 
Solomon  didn't  know  about  bowed  tendons. 
That  leg  needs  something  besides  regards,  I'm 
telling  you." 

"And  I'm  listening,"  said  Old  Man  Curry 
patiently.  '  '  Wisdom  will  die  with  you,  I  reckon, 
Henry,  so  take  care  of  yourself. ' ' 

If  the  Jungle  Circuit  knew  an  event  remotely 
approaching  a  turf  classic,  it  was  the  North- 
western Handicap,  by  usage  shortened  to  "the 
Handicap."  It  was  their  Metropolitan,  Sub- 
urban, and  Brooklyn  rolled  into  one.  The  win- 
ner was  crowned  with  garlands,  the  jockey  was 
photographed  in  the  floral  horseshoe,  and  the 
fortunate  owner  pocketed  something  more  than 
two  thousand  dollars — a  large  sum  of  money 

[85] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


on  any  race  track  in  the  land,  but  a  princely  re- 
ward to  the  average  jungle  owner. 

The  best  horses  in  training  were  entered  each 
year  and  while  a  scornful  Eastern  handicapper 
would  doubtless  have  rated  them  all  among  the 
cheap  selling  platers,  they  were  still  the  kings 
of  the  jungle  tracks,  small  toads  in  a  smaller 
puddle,  and  their  annual  struggle  was  antici- 
pated for  weeks.  Each  candidate  appeared  in 
the  light  of  a  possible  winner  because  the  purse 
was  worth  trying  for  and  each  owner  was  cred- 
ited with  an  honest  desire  to  win.  The  Handi- 
cap was  emphatically  the  "big  betting  race" 
of  the  season. 

This  year  Black  Bill,  famed  for  consistent 
performance  and  ability  to  cover  a  distance  of 
ground,  was  a  pronounced  favourite.  Black 
Bill  had  been  running  with  better  horses  than 
the  jungle  campaigners  and  winning  from  them 
and  it  was  popularly  believed  that  he  had  been 
shipped  from  the  South  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  capturing  the  Handicap  purse.  His 
single  start  at  the  meeting  had  been  won  in 
what  the  turf  reporters  called  "impressive 
fashion/'  which  is  to  say  that  Jockey  Grogan 
brought  Black  Bill  home  three  lengths  in  front 
of  his  field  and  but  for  the  strength  in  his  arms 
the  gap  would  have  been  a  much  wider  one. 

Eegulator,  a  sturdy  chestnut,  and  Miss  Am- 
ber, a  nervous  brown  mare,  were  also  high  in 
public  esteem,  rivals  for  the  position  of  second 
choice. 

[86] 


BY   A   HAIB 


4  It's  a  three-horse  race/'  said  the  wiseacres, 
"and  the  others  are  outclassed.  Whatever 
money  there  is  will  be  split  by  Black  Bill,  Miss 
Amber,  and  Regulator.  If  anything  happens  to 
Bill,  one  of  the  others  will  win,  but  the  rest 
of  'em  won't  get  anything  but  a  hard  ride  and 
a  lot  of  dust." 

From  his  position  on  the  block  Abe  Gold- 
mark  looked  down  on  a  surging  crowd.  He  was 
waiting  for  the  official  announcement  on  the 
third  race.  The  crowd  was  waiting  for  the 
posting  of  the  odds  on  the  Handicap,  waiting, 
money  in  hand,  ready  to  dash  at  bargains.  Al 
Engle  forced  his  way  through  the  press  and 
Goldmark  bent  to  listen. 

"The  old  nut  is  going  to  start  him  sure 
enough,"  whispered  the  Sharpshooter.  "No — 
he  won't  warm  him  up.  Would  you  throw  a 
gallop  into  a  horse  with  his  leg  full  of  coket 
Curry  is  crazy,  but  he  ain't  quite  as  crazy  as 
that." 

"The  old  boy  was  putting  bandages  on  him 
at  midnight  last  night,"  grinned  Goldmark. 
"Dang  it,  Al,  a  man  ought  to  be  arrested  for 
starting  a  horse  in  that  condition." 

"The  coke  will  die  out  before  he's  gone  half 
a  mile,"  said  Engle.  "Might  not  even  last  that 
long — depends  on  how  long  they're  at  the  post. 
I  saw  a  horse  once " 

The  melodious  bellow  of  the  official  announcer 
rose  above  the  hum  of  the  crowd  and  there  wai 
a  sudden,  tense  shifting  of  the  nervous  human 

[87] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


mass.  A  dozen  bookmakers  turned  leisurely  to 
their  slates,  a  dozen  pieces  of  chalk  were  poised 
aggravatingly — and  a  hoarse  grunt  of  disap- 
pointment rose  from  the  watchers.  Black  Bill 
the  favourite,  yes,  but  bet  fives  to  win  threes? 
Hardly.  Wait  a  minute;  don't  go  after  it 
now.  Maybe  it'll  go  up.  Eegulator,  8  to  5 — 
Holy  Moses!  What  kind  of  booking  is  this, 
anyway?  Miss  Amber,  2  to  1. 

"Make  'em  all  odds  on  and  be  done  with  it!" 
sneered  the  gamblers.  "Talk  about  your  syn- 
dicate books  !  Beat  five  races  at  this  track  and 
if  your  money  holds  out  you  may  beat  the  sixth, 
too.  Huh!" 

One  bookmaker,  more  adventurous  than  his 
fellows,  offered  4  to  5  on  Black  Bill  and  was 
immediately  mobbed.  Then  came  the  prices  on 
the  outsiders.  Simple  Simon,  8  to  1;  Pepper 
and  Salt,  12  to  1;  Ted  Mitchell  and  Everhardt, 
15  to  1 ;  and  so  on.  Last  of  all,  the  chalk  paused 
at  Elisha— 40  to  1. 

"Aw,  be  game!"  taunted  Al  Engle.  "Only 
40 — with  what  you  know  about  him?  He  ought 
to  be  100,  40,  and  20 !  Be  game ! ' ' 

"Who's  doing  this?"  demanded  Goldmark. 
"Come  on,  gentlemen!  Make  your  bets!  We 
haven't  got  all  day.  Black  Bill,  6  to  10.  Sim- 
ple Simon,  40  to  5.  Thank  you,  sir." 

Out  in  the  paddock  Old  Man  Curry  rubbed 
the  red  flannel  bandage  on  Elisha 's  leg,  stop- 
ping now  and  then  to  answer  questions. 

"Eh?    Yes,  been  a  little  lame.    Will  he  last? 
[88] 


BY   A  HAIR 


Well,  it's  this  way;  you  can't  never  tell.  If  it 
comes  back  on  him — no,  I  didn't  warm  him  up. 
Why  not?  That's  my  business,  young  man." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  came  also,  alert  as  a  fox, 
eager  for  any  scrap  of  information  which  might 
be  converted  into  coin.  He  shook  his  head  re- 
provingly at  Old  Man  Curry. 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  have  the  heart,  old- 
timer,"  said  he.  "Honest  to  Pete,  I  didn't! 
Don't  you  care  what  happens  to  this  horse  or 
what?" 

"Son,"  said  the  patriarch  simply,  "I  care  a 
lot.  I  care  a-plenty.  If  you've  got  any  of  that 
seven  dollars  left,  you  might  put  it  on  his  nose." 

"Him?  To  win?  You're  daffy  as  a  cuckoo 
bird !  Why,  last  night  he  couldn't  put  that  foot 
on  the  ground ! ' ' 

"Well,  of  course,  Frank,  if  you  know  that 
much  about  it,  don't  let  me  advise  you.  If  I 
had  seven  dollars  and  was  looking  for  a  soft 
spot  I'd  put  it  square  on  'Lisha's  nose." 

"You've  been  losing  too  much  sleep  lately," 
said  the  Kid,  edging  away.  "You  want  to  win 
this  race  so  much  that  you've  bulled  yourself 
into  thinking  that  you  can. ' ' 

"Mebbe  so,  Frank,  mebbe  so,"  was  the  mild 
response,  "but  don't  let  me  influence  you  none 
whatever.  Go  play  Black  Bill.  What's  his 
price  ? ' ' 

"Three  to  five.    One  to  two  in  some  books." 

"False  price!"  said  the  old  man.  "He  ain't 
got  no  license  to  be  odds  on. ' ' 

[89] 


OLD   MAN    CUEEY 


"See  you  later!"  said  the  Bald-faced  Kid, 
and  went  away  with  a  pitying  grin  upon  his 
face.  The  pity  was  evenly  divided  between 
Elisha  and  his  owner. 

Old  Man  Curry  heaved  little  Mose  into  the 
saddle. 

"Mind  now,  son.  Bide  just  like  I  told  you. 
Stay  with  that  black  hoss.  He'll  lay  out  of  it 
the  first  mile.  When  he  moves  up,  you  move 
up  too.  We've  got  a  big  pull  in  the  weights 
and  that'll  count  in  the  last  quarter.  Stay  with 
him,  just  like  his  shadow,  Mose." 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Jockey  Jones.  "If  I'm  go- 
in  '  to  be  his  shadder,  he'll  sho'  think  the  sun 
is  settin'  behind  him  when  he  starts  down  at 
stretch!" 

Abe  Goldmark  craned  his  neck  to  see  the 
parade  pass  the  grand  stand.  Elisha  was  fifth 
in  line,  walking  sedately,  as  was  his  habit. 

6  '  Not  so  very  frisky,  but  at  that  he  looks  bet- 
ter than  I  thought  he  would,"  was  Goldmark 's 
mental  comment.  ' '  They  must  have  shot  all  the 
coke  in  the  world  into  that  old  skate.  As  soon 
as  he  begins  to  run  the  blood  will  pump  into 
that  sore  leg  and  he'll  quit.  Black  Bill  looks 
like  the  money  to  me.  He  outclasses  these  other 
horses." 

Goldmark  passed  the  eraser  over  his  slate. 
Black  Bill,  2  to  5.  Elisha,  60,  20,  and  10. 

A  dozen  restless,  high-strung  thoroughbreds 
and  a  dozen  nervous,  scheming  jockeys  can 
make  life  exceedingly  interesting  for  an  official 

[90] 


BY   A   HAIR 


starter,  particularly  if  the  race  be  an  important 
one  and  a  ragged  start  certain  to  draw  a  storm 
of  adverse  criticism.  The  boys  on  the  front 
runners  were  all  manoeuvring  to  beat  the  bar- 
rier and  thus  add  to  a  natural  advantage  while 
the  boys  on  the  top-weighted  horses  were  striv- 
ing to  secure  an  early  start  before  the  lead  pads 
began  to  tell  on  their  mounts.  As  a  result  the 
barrier  was  broken  four  times  in  as  many  min- 
utes and  the  commandment  against  profanity 
was  broken  much  oftener.  The  starter  grew 
hoarse  and  inarticulate ;  sweat  streamed  down 
his  face  as  he  hurled  anathemas  at  horses  and 
riders. 

"Keep  that  Miss  Amber  back,  Dugan!  Go 
through  that  barrier  again  and  it'll  cost  you 
fifty! !!» 

"I  can't  do  nothing  with  her!"  whined  Du- 
gan. * '  She 's  crazy ;  that 's  what  she  is ! " 

Through  all  the  turmoil  and  excitement  two 
horses  remained  quietly  in  their  positions  wait- 
ing for  the  word.  These  were  Black  Bill  and 
Elisha,  stretch  runners,  to  whom  a  few  yards 
the  worst  of  the  start  meant  nothing.  Out  of 
the  corner  of  his  eye  little  Mose  watched  Jockey 
Grogan  on  the  favourite.  The  black  horse  edged 
toward  the  webbing,  the  line  broke,  wheeled,  ad- 
vanced, broke  again  and  a  third  time  came 
swinging  forward.  As  it  advanced,  Mose  drove 
the  blunt  spurs  into  Elisha 's  side.  A  roar  from 
the  starter,  a  spattering  rain  of  clods,  a  swirl 
of  dust — and  the  Handicap  was  on. 

[91] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


"Nice  start !"  said  the  presiding  judge,  draw- 
ing a  long  breath. 

Across  the  track,  the  official  starter  mopped 
his  brow. 

"Not  so  worse,"  said  he.  "Go  on,  you  little 
devils!  It's  up  to  you!" 

Away  went  the  front  runners,  their  riders 
checking  them  and  rating  their  speed  with  an 
eye  to  the  long  journey.  Simple  Simon,  Pep- 
per and  Salt,  and  Ted  Mitchell  engaged  in  a 
brisk  struggle  for  the  pace-making  position  and 
the  latter  secured  it.  Miss  Amber  and  Eegula- 
tor  were  in  fifth  and  sixth  place*3  respectively, 
and  at  the  tail  end  of  the  procession  was  Black 
Bill,  taking  his  time,  barely  keeping  up  with 
the  others.  A  distance  race  was  no  new  thing 
to  Black  Bill.  He  had  seen  front  runners  before 
and  knew  that  they  had  a  habit  of  fading  in  the 
final  quarter.  Beside  him  was  Elisha,  match- 
ing him,  stride  for  stride. 

Down  the  stretch  they  came,  Ted  Mitchell 
gradually  increasing  the  pace.  Jockey  Jones 
heard  the  crowd  cheering  as  he  passed  the 
grand  stand  and  his  lip  curled. 

"We  eatin'  it  now,  'Lisha  hawss,"  said  he, 
"but  nex'  time  we  come  down  yere  they'll  be 
eatin'  ow'  dust  an'  don't  make  no  mistake! 
Take  yo'  time,  baby.  It's  a  long  way  yit,  a 
lo-ong  way ! ' ' 

Entering  the  back  stretch  there  was  a  sud- 
den shifting  of  the  coloured  jackets.  The  out- 
siders, nervous  and  overeager,  were  making 

[92] 


BY   A   HAIR 


their  bids  for  the  purse,  and  making  them  too 
soon.  The  flurry  toward  the  front  brought 
about  a  momentary  spurt  in  the  pace  followed 
immediately  by  the  steady,  machine-like  ad- 
vance of  Eegulator,  but  as  the  chestnut  horse 
moved  up  the  brown  mare  went  with  him,  on 
even  terms. 

" There  goes  Eegulator!    There  he  goes!" 

* 6  Yes,  but  he  can 't  shake  Miss  Amber !  She 's 
right  there  with  him !  Oh,  you  Amber ! ' ' 

"What  ails  Black  Bill!  He's  a  swell  favour- 
ite, he  is !  He  ain't  done  a  thing  yet." 

"He  always  runs  that  way,"  said  the  wise 
ones.  "Wait  till  he  hits  the  upper  turn." 

Abe  Goldmark,  standing  on  a  stool  on  the 
lawn,  wrinkled  his  brow  in  perplexity.  "About 
time  for  that  bird  to  quit,"  said  he  to  himself. 
"He  ain't  got  any  license  to  run  a  mile  with  a 
leg  like  that!" 

Jockey  Moseby  Jones  was  also  beginning  to 
wonder  what  ailed  Black  Bill.  Grogan  sat  the 
favourite  like  a  statue,  apparently  unmoved  by 
the  gap  widening  in  front  of  him. 

"We  kin  wait  'long  as  he  kin,  baby,"  said 
Mose,  comfortingly,  "but  I  sut'ny  don't  crave 
to  see  'em  otheh  hawsses  so  far  ahead!" 

At  the  end  of  the  mile  Black  Bill  and  Elisha 
were  still  at  the  end  of  the  procession.  Miss 
Amber  had  managed  to  shove  her  brown  nose 
in  front,  with  Eegulator  at  her  saddle  girth. 
Many  an  anxious  eye  was  turned  on  Black  Bill ; 
many  saw  his  transformation  but  none  was  bet- 

[93] 


OLD   MAN    CURKY 


ter  prepared  for  it  than  Jockey  Moseby  Jones. 
He  saw  the  first  wrap  slide  from  Grogan 's 
wrists. 

"Come  on,  baby!"  yelled  Mose,  bumping 
Elisha  with  his  spurs.  "Come  on!  We  got  a 
race  here  af teh  all !  Yes,  sun,  'is  black  hawss 
wakin*  up !  Show  him  something,  baby!  Show 
him  ow'  class!" 

Jockey  Grogan  laughed  and  flung  an  insult 
over  his  shoulder. 

6  '  Class  f  That  skate  ? ' '  said  he.  '  '  Stay  with 
us  as  long  as  you  can.  This  is  a-a-a  horse,  nig- 
ger, a-a-a  horse ! ' ' 

Black  Bill  was  beginning  to  run  at  last,  as  the 
grand  stand  acknowledged  with  frenzied  yells.i 
Yes,  he  was  running,  but  a  gaunt  bay  horse  was 
running  with  him,  stride  for  stride.  Old  Man 
Curry,  at  the  paddock  gate,  tugged  at  his  beard 
with  one  hand  and  fumbled  for  his  tobacco  with 
the  other. 

Side  by  side  the  black  and  the  bay  swept  upon 
the  floundering  outsiders,  overwhelmed  them, 
and  passed  on.  Side  by  side  they  turned  into 
the  home  stretch,  and  only  two  horses  were  in 
front  of  them — Begulator  and  Miss  Amber. 
The  mare  was  under  the  whip. 

"You  say  you  got  a-a-a  hawss  there  I"  taunted 
Mose.    ' '  Show  me  how  much  hawss  he  is ! ' ' 

Grogan  shook  off  the  last  wrap  and  bent  to 
his  work.  Not  until  then  did  he  realise  that  the 
real  race  was  beside  him  and  not  with  the  chest- 
nut out  in  front. 

[94] 


BY   A  HAIR 

"Show  him  up,  'Lisha!  Show  him  up!" 
shrilled  Mose,  and  the  bay  responded  with  a 
lengthened  stride  which  gave  him  an  advantage 
to  be  measured  in  inches,  but  Black  Bill  gamely 
fought  his  way  back  on  even  terms  again.  Miss 
Amber  dropped  behind.  The  boy  on  Eegulator 
was  using  his  whip,  but  he  might  just  as  well 
have  been  beating  a  carpet  with  it.  Third  money 
was  his  at  the  paddock  gate. 

Seventy-five  yards — fifty  yards — twenty-five 
yards — and  still  the  two  heads  bobbed  side  by 
side.  Jockey  Michael  Grogan,  hero  of  many  a 
hard  finish;  cool,  calculating,  and  unmoved  by 
the  deafening  clamour  beating  down  from  the 
packed  grand  stand,  measured  the  distance  with 
his  eye — and  took  a  chance.  His  rawhide  whip 
whistled  through  the  air.  Black  Bill,  unused  to 
punishment,  faltered  for  the  briefest  fraction  of 
a  second,  and  came  on  again,  but  too  late. 

The  presiding  judge,  an  unprejudiced  man 
with  a  stubby  grey  moustache,  squinted  across 
an  imaginary  line  and  saw  the  bay  head  before 
he  saw  the  black.  "Jee-roozalum,  my  happy 
home!"  said  he.  "That  was  an  awful  tight  fit, 
but  the  Curry  horse  won — by  a  whisker.  Hang 
up  the  numbers.  Lord!  But  that  Elisha  is  a 
better  horse  than  I  gave  him  credit  for  being!" 

"Yeh,"  said  the  associate  judge,  "and  the 
nigger  outrode  Grogan,  if  anybody  should  ask 
you.  He  had  a  chance — if  he  hadn't  let  that 
horse's  head  flop  to  go  the  bat!" 

[95] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


"It  wasn't  that,"  said  the  other  quickly. 
"The  horse  flinched  when  he  hit  him." 
i  "I  been  photographed  and  interviewed  till 
I'm  black  in  the  face,"  complained  Old  Man 
Curry,  ' i and  now  you  come  along.  You're  worse 
than  them  confounded  reporters!" 

"You  bet  I  am,"  was  the  calm  response  of 
the  Bald-faced  Kid,  "because  I  know  more. 
And  yet  I  don't  know  enough  to  satisfy  me. 
Somebody  played  Elisha,  and  it  wasn't  me. 
You  never  went  near  the  betting  ring.  I 
watched  you." 

"My  money  did.    Quite  a  gob  of  it." 

"And  you — you  thought  he'd  win!" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  to  bet  on  him?" 

* '  Hell ! ' '  wailed  the  Bald-faced  Kid.  « <  He  was 
lame — he  couldn't  walk  the  night  before!  Bet 
on  him?  How  could  I  after  I'd  seen  him  in 
that  fix?" 

"Frank,"  said  the  old  man,  "you  believe 
everything  you  see,  don't  you?" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  sat  down  and  took  his 
head  in  his  hands. 

"Tell  it  to  me,  old-timer,"  said  he  humbly., 
"I'm  such  a  wise  guy  that  it  hurts  me;  but 
something  has  come  off  here  that's  a  mile  over 
my  head.  Tell  me;  I'm  no  mind  reader." 

Old  Man  Curry  combed  his  beard  reflectively 
and  gazed  through  the  tack-room  door  into  the 
dusk  of  the  summer  evening. 

"Son,"  said  he  at  length,  "you  never 
swapped  bosses  much,  did  you!" 

[96]  ' 


BY    A   HAIR 


" Never  owned  any  to  swap,"  was  the  muffled 
response. 

."Too  bad.  You  would  have  learned  things. 
For  instance,  there's  a  trick  that  can  be  worked 
when  you  want  to  buy  a  hoss  cheap  and  can  get 
at  him  for  a  minute.  It's  done  with  a  needle 
and  thread  and  a  hair  from  the  hoss's  tail. 
There's  a  spot  in  the  leg  where  the  tendons 
come  together,  and  the  trick  is  to  pass  that  hoss- 
hair  in  between  the  tendons  and  trim  off  the 
ends  just  long  enough  so's  you  can  find  'em 
again.  Best  part  of  the  trick  is  it  don't  hurt 
the  hoss  none,  but  he  knows  it's  there  and  he 
won't  hardly  rest  his  foot  on  the  ground  till  it's 
pulled  out.  Then  he's  as  good  as  new  again." 

"Lovely!"  groaned  the  Kid.  "What  makes 
you  so  close-mouthed,  old-timer?" 

"Experience,  son,  experience.  'He  that  hath 
knowledge  spareth  his  words.'  I  spared  quite 
a-rnany.  I  knew  there  was  a  spy  in  camp,  and  I 
sewed  up  Elisha  on  Wednesday  and  let  Henry 
see  him.  Al  Engle  came  over  and  peeked  to 
make  sure.  I  had  the  little  nigger  watching  for 
him.  You  saw  Elisha  that  same  night,  and  the 
whole  kit  and  boiling  of  you  got  a  couple  of 
notions  fixed  in  your  heads — first,  that  it  was 
Elisha;  second,  that  he  was  a  tol'able  lame  hoss. 
You  expected,  when  you  looked  in  that  stall 
again,  you'd  see  a  big  red  hoss  with  a  white 
spot  on  his  forehead — lame.  Well,  you  did,  but 
it  wasn't  the  same  one." 

[97] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


"Elijah!"  said  the  Kid.  "And  you  lamed 
him  too?" 

"I  had  to  do  it.  People  expected  to  see  a 
lame  hoss ;  I  had  to  have  one  to  show  'em,  didn't 
IT  But  nobody  got  a  look  at  him  in  bright  day- 
light, son.  After  you  went  away  Wednesday 
night  I  pulled  out  the  hosshair,  put  Elisha  in 
Elijah's  stall,  and  vice  versey,  as  they  say. 
Then  I  worked  on  Elijah,  and  when  Henry  came 
along  he  didn't  know  the  difference.  Them 
hosses  look  a  lot  alike,  anyway;  put  a  little 
daub  of  white  stuff  on  Elijah's  forehead,  keep 
him  blanketed  up  pretty  snug,  and — well,  I 
reckon  that's  about  all  they  was  to  it." 

"Fifty  and  sixty  to  one — going  begging!" 
mourned  the  Kid.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
what  was  coming  off?" 

"Because  Henry  was  watching  both  of  us," 
was  the  reply.  "And,  speaking  of  Henry,  it 
was  you  told  me  the  sons  of  Belial  had  gone 
into  the  spy  business,  so  I  p'tected  your  inter- 
ests the  best  I  could.  Here 's  a  little  ticket  call- 
ing for  quite  a  mess  of  money.  It's  on  Abe 
Goldmark's  book,  and  I  didn't  cash  it  because 
I  wanted  you  to  have  a  chance  to  laugh  at  him 
when  he  pays  off.  Last  I  seen  of  him  he  was 
sore  but  solvent." 


[98] 


THE  LAST  CHANCE 


IT  was  the  Bald-faced  Kid  who  christened 
him  Little  Calamity  because,  as  he  ex- 
plained, Jockey  Gillis  was  a  sniffling,  whin- 
ing, half  portion  of  hard  luck  and  a  dis- 
grace to  the  disreputable  profession  of  touting. 
* ' Every  season,"  said  the  Bald-faced  Kid,  "is 
a  tough  season  for  a  guy  like  that.  He  carries 
his  hard  luck  with  him.  He's  cockeyed  some- 
thing awful ;  his  face  was  put  on  upside  down ; 
you  can't  tell  whether  he's  looking  you  in  the 
eye  or  watching  out  for  a  policeman,  and  drunks 
shy  clear  across  the  betting  ring  to  get  away 
from  him.  That's  the  tip-off;  when  a  souse 
won't  listen  to  your  gentle  voice,  it's  time  to 
change  your  system  of  approach.  This  Little 
Calamity  person  has  only  got  one  thing  in  his 
favour,  and  that's  an  honest  face;  he  looks  like 
a  thief,  and,  by  golly,  he  is  one.  He  couldn't 
sell  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece  for  a  dime  or 
make  a  sucker  put  down  a  bet  with  the  win- 
ning numbers  already  hanging  on  the  board  in 
front  of  him.  They  all  give  him  the  once  over 
and  holler  for  the  police.  And  as  for  his  riding, 

[99] 


OLD   MAN    CURKY 


he's  about  as  much  help  to  a  horse  as  a  fine 
case  of  the  heaves.  I'm  darned  if  I  know  how 
he  manages  to  live!" 

Little  Calamity  sometimes  wondered  about 
this  himself.  Of  course  there  were  the  rare  oc- 
casions when  he  was  able  to  persuade  a  weak- 
minded  owner  to  give  him  a  mount  on  a  hopeless 
outsider  or  a  horse  entered  only  for  the  sake 
of  the  workout,  but  the  five-dollar  jockey  fees 
were  few  and  far  between.  They  could  not  be 
stretched  to  cover  the  intervening  periods,  so 
Little  Calamity  did  his  best  to  be  a  petty  lar- 
cenist  with  indifferent  success. 

He  infested  the  betting  ring  with  a  persist- 
ence almost  pitiful,  but  he  had  neither  the  ap- 
pearance nor  the  manner  which  begets  confi- 
dence in  unlikely  tales,  and  in  his  mouth  the 
truth  itself  sounded  like  a  fabrication.  He  was 
a  willing  but  an  unconvincing  liar,  and  the  few 
who  lingered  long  enough  to  listen  to  his  clumsy 
attempts  went  away  smiling. 

Little  Calamity  was  nearer  thirty  than 
twenty,  wrinkled  and  weazened  and  bow-legged. 
Worse  than  everything  else,  he  was  cross-eyed. 
The  direct  and  compelling  gaze  is  an  absolute 
necessity  in  the  touting  business  because  the 
average  man  believes  that  the  liar  will  be  unable 
to  look  him  in  the  eye.  Little  Calamity  could 
not  look  any  man  in  the  eye  without  first  un- 
dergoing a  surgical  operation.  He  had  few  ac- 
quaintances and  no  friends;  he  ate  when  he 
[100] 


THE   LAST   CHANCE 


could,  slept  where  he  could,  and  life  to  him  was 
just  a  continued  hard-luck  story. 

Imagine,  then,  the  incredulous  amazement  of 
the  Bald-faced  Kid  when  Old  Man  Curry  in- 
formed him  that  Jockey  Gillis  had  secured 
steady  employment. 

< ' That  shrimp f  "  said  the  Kid.  "Why,  if  he 
had  the  ice-water  privilege  in  hell  he'd  starve 
to  death!" 

" Frank, "  said  the  old  man,  "I  wish  you 
wouldn't  be  so  blame  keerless  with  your  figures 
of  speech.  There  won't  be  any  ice  water  for 
the  wicked,  it  says  in  the  Book,  and,  anyway,  it 
ain't  a  fit  subject  to  joke  about.  It  don't  sound 
pretty." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  took  this  reproof  with  a 
sober  countenance,  for  he  respected  the  old 
man's  principles  even  if  he  did  not  understand 
them. 

"All  right,  old-timer.  I'll  take  your  word  for 
it.  Got  a  steady  job,  has  he?  For  Heaven's 
sake,  what  doing?" 

"Running  a  racing  stable  for  a  man  named 
Hopwood." 

"Sunning  a  stable!  What  does  Calamity 
know  about  training  horses?" 

"A  heap  more  than  Hopwood,  I  reckon,  and, 
anyway,  he  '11  only  have  one  hoss  to  experiment 
on.  Hopwood  was  over  here  this  morning,  vis- 
iting around  and  getting  acquainted,  he  said. 
Awful  gabby  old  coot.  He's  got  a  grocery  store 
up  in  Butte,  and  used  to  go  out  to  the  race 
[101] 


OLD   MAN    CUKRY 


track  once  in  a  while.  Some  of  those  burglars 
got  hold  of  him  and  sold  him  something  with 
four  legs  and  a  tail.  They  told  him  it  was  a 
sure  enough  race  hoss,  and  now  he's  down  here 
to  make  his  fortune.  Gillis  saw  him  first,  I 
reckon.  Hopwood  has  hired  him  by  the  month 
— and  a  percentage  of  what  he  wins." 

At  this  the  Bald-faced  Kid  laughed  long  and 
loud. 

"There's  one  of  'em  born  every  minute," 
said  he,  "but  I  didn't  think  the  supply  was  big 
enough  to  reach  as  far  as  Calamity.  Didn't 
you  tell  this  poor  nut  what  he  was  up  against, 
trying  to  horn  his  way  into  the  Jungle  Circuit 
with  one  lonely  lizard  and  a  human  jinx  to 
handle  him?" 

"No-o,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  "I  didn't. 
What  would  be  the  use !  You  know  what  Solo- 
mon says  about  that  sort  of  thing,  don't  you!" 

"I  do  not,"  answered  the  Kid  promptly,  "but 
I'll  be  the  goat  as  usual.  What  does  he  say  I" 

"  *  Answer  not  a  fool  according  to  his  folly, 
lest  thou  also  be  like  unto  him,'  "  quoted  Old 
Man  Curry,  "and  that's  sound  advice,  my  son. 
When  a  fool  gets  an  idea  crossways  in  his  head, 
nothing  but  a  cold  chisel  will  get  it  out  again, 
and,  anyway,  people  don't  thank  you  for  point- 
ing out  their  mistakes.  It's  human  nature  to 
get  mad  at  a  man  that  can  prove  he  knows 
more  than  you  do.  This  Hopwood  has  got  it 
all  whittled  down  to  a  fine  point  how  he's  going 
to  do  right  well  at  the  racing  game,  and  the  best 
[102] 


THE   LAST    CHANCE 


way  is  to  let  him  try  it  a  while.  It'll  cost  him 
money  to  find  out  that  a  grocery  store  is  a  safer 
place  for  him  than  a  race  track.  'A  whip  for 
the  horse,  a  bridle  for  the  ass,  and  a  rod  for 
the  fool's  back.'  That's  Solomon  again.  Hop- 
wood  has  got  the  gad  coming  to  him  for  sure. ' ' 

" Ain't  that  the  truth!"  exclaimed  the  Kid. 
"By  the  way,  did  he  mention  the  name  of  the 
beetle  that's  going  to  do  all  this  heavy  work?" 

"That's  the  best  joke  of  all,"  said  Old  Man 
Curry.  "Hopwood  stables  down  at  the  end  of 
the  line,  where  Gilfeather  used  to  be.  Go  take 
a  look  at  what  they  sold  him  for  five  hundred 
dollars." 

"I'll  do  that  little  thing,"  said  the  Kid,  ris- 
ing. "If  he's  got  any  dough  left,  I  may  want 
to  sell  him  something  myself!" 

Little  Calamity  was  in  the  box  stall,  indus- 
triously grooming  a  tall,  wild-eyed  chestnut  ani- 
mal with  four  white  stockings  and  a  blaze,  and 
as  he  worked  he  hummed  a  tune  under  his 
breath.  The  tune  stopped  when  he  became 
aware  of  a  head  thrust  in  at  the  open  door. 
The  Bald-faced  Kid  glanced  at  the  horse  and 
his  jaw  dropped. 

"Well,  by  the  limping  Lazarus!"  he  ejacu- 
lated. "If  they  haven't  gone  and  slipped  him 
Last  Chance!  Yes,  I'd  know  that  darned  old 
hay  hound  if  he  was  stuffed  and  in  a  museum, 
and,  by  golly,  that 's  where  he  ought  to  be !  Last 
Chance!" 

"What's  it  to  you?"  growled  Little  Calam- 
[103] 


OLD    MAN    CUEKY 


ity  sullenly.  "  Can't  you  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness?" 

4  *  Your  boss  is  in  big  luck,"  continued  the  vis- 
itor, pleasantly  ignoring  Calamity's  manner. 
"The  worst  horse  and  the  worst  jock  in  the 
world — a  prize  package  for  fair !  Last  Chance ! 
His  name  ought  to  be  No  Chance ! ' ' 

"Now  looka  here,"  whined  Calamity,  "I 
never  tried  to  queer  anything  for  you,  did  II 
Live  and  let  live;  that's  what  I  say,  and  let  a 
guy  get  by  if  he  can.  If  you  was  right  up 
against  it  and  had  a  chance  to  grab  off  eating 
money,  you  wouldn't  want  anybody  around 
knocking,  would  you?  On  the  level?" 

He  looked  up  as  he  finished,  and  the  Bald- 
faced  Kid's  heart  smote  him.  Little  Calamity's 
face  was  thinner  than  ever,  there  were  hollows 
under  his  wandering  eyes,  and  in  them  the  anx- 
ious, wistful  look  of  a  half-starved  cur  which 
has  found  a  bone  and  fears  that  it  will  be  taken, 
away  from  him.  It  occurred  to  the  Kid  that 
even  a  rat  like  Gillis  might  have  feelings — such 
feelings  as  may  be  touched  by  hunger  and  physi- 
cal discomfort.  And  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
desperate  earnestness  of  his  plea. 

'  *  Things  have  been  breaking  awful  tough  for 
me  around  here,"  he  went  on.  "Awful  tough. 
You  don't  know.  And  then  this  Hop  wood 
came  along.  It  ain't  my  fault  if  the  sucker 
thinks  he's  got  another  Eoseben,  is  it?  He 
wanted  a  trainer  and  a  jockey,  and  somebody 
else  would  have  picked  him  up  if  I  hadn't.  It's 
[104] 


THE   LAST    CHANCE 


the  first  piece  of  luck  I've  had  this  year.  All 
I  want  is  a  chance  to  string  with  this  fellow 
as  long  as  he  lasts  and  get  a  piece  of  change  for 
myself.  That  ain  't  hurting  you  any,  is  it  ?  He  's 
my  only  chance  to  eat  regular;  don't  go  scaring 
him  away." 

The  Kid  was  about  to  reply  when  a  short,  fat 
gentleman  waddled  around  the  corner  of  the 
barn  and  paused,  wheezing,  at  the  door  of  the 
stall.  A  new  owners'  badge  dangled  promi- 
nently from  his  buttonhole,  and  this  he  fingered 
from  time  to  time  with  manifest  pride.  He 
peered  in  at  Last  Chance  and  beamed  upon  the 
Bald-faced  Kid  with  the  utmost  friendliness, 
his  thick  eyeglasses  giving  him  the  appearance 
of  a  jovial  owl. 

"Well,"  said  he  heartily,  "I  see  you're  look- 
ing him  over,  young  man.  He's  mine;  I  just 
bought  him,  and  I  think  I  got  him  cheap.  Pretty 
fine-looking  horse,  eh?" 

The  Kid  nodded  gravely. 

"You  bet  your  life!"  said  he  with  emphasis. 
' '  Take  it  from  me,  he  is  some  horse ! ' ' 

"Some  horse  is  right!"  chimed  in  Little  Cal- 
amity fervently.  "Just  wait  till  I  get  him  in 
shape,  boss,  and  I'll  show  you  how  much  horse 
he  is!" 

"And  that,"  said  the  Bald-faced  Kid,  "is  no 
idle  statement." 

"Frank,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  "you're  mak- 
ing more  of  a  fool  of  that  Hopwood  than  the 
[105] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


Lord  intended  him  to  be,  and  it's  a  sin  and  a 
shame.    Why  can't  you  let  him  alone?" 

"Because  he  hands  me  many  a  laugh,"  said 
the  Bald-faced  Kid,  "and  laughs  are  good  for 
what  ails  me.  He  is  a  three-ring  circus  and 
concert  all  by  himself,  but  he  doesn't  know  it, 
and  that 's  what  makes  him  so  good.  And  inno- 
cent? Say,  the  original  Babes  in  the  Wood 
haven't  got  a  thing  on  him.  If  he  stays  around 
here  these  sharpshooters  will  have  his  shirt." 

"And  you're  helping  them  to  get  it  with 
your  lies.  First  thing  you  know  you'll  have 
him  betting  on  that  hoss  when  he  starts,  and 
Last  Chance  never  won  a  race  in  his  life  and 
never  will.  He  can  quit  so  fast  that  it  looks 
like  he's  going  the  wrong  way  of  the  track. 
Hopwood  was  around  here  to-day  all  swelled 
up  with  the  stories  you've  been  feeding  him. 
It  ain't  right,  my  son,  and,  what's  more,  it 
ain't  honest.  You  might  just  as  well  pick  his 
pockets  and  give  the  money  to  the  bookmakers. ' ' 

"The  bookmakers  won't  get  fat  on  what  they 
take  away  from  him,"  was  the  careless  re- 
joinder. "This  fellow  has  got  a  groceryman's 
heart.  He  can  squeeze  a  dollar  until  the  eagle 
screams  for  help,  and  he  never  heard  of  Eiley 
Grannan.  If  he  bets  at  all  it  won't  be  more 
than  a  ten-dollar  note.  Last  Chance  goes  in 
the  second  race  to-morrow — nonwinners  at  the 
meeting — and  I'm  going  down  to  the  stable  now 
to  have  a  conference  and  give  Calamity  his  rid- 
ing orders." 

[106] 


THE   LAST    CHANCE 


"I  wash  my  hands  of  you,"  said  the  old  man. 
"Fun  is  all  right  in  its  place,  but  fun  that  hurts 
somebody  else  has  a  way  of  coming  home  to 
roost.  Don 't  forget  that,  my  son. ' ' 

4 'Aw,  who's  going  to  hurt  him?"  was  the 
sulky  rejoinder.  "I'm  only  helping  the  chump 
to  buy  some  of  the  experience  that  you  spoke 
about  the  other  day." 

"Solomon  says "  began  Old  Man  Curry, 

but  the  Kid  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 

"Put  him  on  ice  till  to-morrow!"  he  called 
back  over  his  shoulder.  * '  This  is  my  busy  day ! ' ' 

For  a  horse  that  had  never  won  a  race,  Last 
Chance  made  a  gay  appearance  in  the  paddock. 
Little  Calamity,  conscious  of  his  shortcomings 
as  a  trainer,  had  done  his  best  to  offset  them 
by  extra  activities  in  his  capacity  as  stable 
hand.  The  big  chestnut  had  been  groomed  and 
polished  until  his  smooth  coat  shone  like  satin 
and  blue  ribbons  were  braided  in  his  mane.  The 
other  nonwinners  were  a  sorry-looking  lot  of 
dogs  when  compared  with  Last  Chance,  and  the 
owner's  bosom  swelled  with  proud  anticipation. 

"Look  at  the  fire  in  his  eye!"  said  Hopwood 
to  the  Bald-faced  Kid.  ' '  See  how  lively  he  is ! " 

"Uh-huh,"  said  the  Kid,  who  was  present  in 
the  role  of  adviser.  "He  seems  to  be  full  of 
pep  to-day." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Last  Chance  was  nerv- 
ous. He  knew  that  a  trip  to  the  paddock  was 
usually  followed  by  a  beating  with  a  rawhide 
whip  and  a  prodding  with  blunt  spurs,  hence  the 
[107] 


OLD    MAN    CUKBY 


skittishness  of  his  behaviour  and  the  fire  in  his 
eye.  Given  a  decent  opportunity  he  would  have 
jumped  the  fence  and  gone  home  to  his  stall. 

When  the  bell  rang  Little  Calamity  came  out 
of  the  jockeys'  room,  radiant  as  a  butterfly  in 
his  new  silks ;  he  had  the  audacity  to  wink  when 
he  saw  the  Kid  looking  at  him. 

"What  do  we  do  now?"  demanded  Hopwood, 
all  in  a  flutter.  "This  is  new  to  me,  you 
know. ' ' 

"Well,"  said  the  Kid,  "I'd  say  it  would  be  a 
right  pious  idea  to  get  this  fiery  steed  saddled 
up,  unless  Calamity  here  is  figuring  on  riding 
him  bareback,  which  I  don't  think  the  judges 
would  stand  for." 

Later  it  was  the  Kid  who  gave  Calamity  his 
riding  orders.  "All  right,  boy,"  said  he. 
"Nothing  in  here  to  beat  but  a  lot  of  lizards. 
Never  look  back  and  make  every  post  a  winning 
one.  He  can  tow-rope  this  field  and  drag  'em 
to  death!" 

"Pzzt!"  whispered  the  jockey.  "Not  so 
strong  with  it,  not  so  strong!" 

While  the  horses  were  on  their  way  to  the 
post  the  Bald-faced  Kid  escorted  Hopwood  to 
a  position  in  front  of  the  grand  stand. 

"You  want  to  be  handy  in  case  he  wins," 
said  the  Kid.  "You'll  have  to  go  down  in  the 
ring  if  he  does.  It's  a  selling  race  and  they 
might  try  to  run  him  up  on  you." 

"In  the  ring,  eh?"  said  Hopwood,  straighten- 
ing his  collar  and  plucking  at  his  tie.  "Do  I 
[108] 


THE  LAST   CHANCE 


look  all  right?''  But  the  Kid  was  coughing  so 
hard  that  he  could  not  answer  the  question. 

"I  can't  see  very  far  with  these  glasses," 
said  Hopwood,  "and  you'll  have  to  tell  me 
about  it.  Where  is  he  now?" 

"At  the  post,"  said  the  Kid.  "The  starter 
won't  fool  away  much  time  with  those  .  .  . 
there  they  go  now!  Good  start." 

Hopwood  pawed  at  the  Kid's  arm. 

"I  can't  see  a  thing!  Where  is  he?  How's 
he  doing?" 

"He  broke  flying  and  he's  right  up  in  front." 

"That's  good!  That's  fine!  .  .  .  And  now? 
Where  is  he  now?" 

* '  Still  up  in  front  and  winging,  just  winging. 
It's  an  exercise  gallop  for  him.  How  much  did 
you  bet?" 

Hopwood  took  off  his  glasses  and  fumbled  at 
them  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"Second,  turning  for  home.  He  ought  to  win 
all  by  himself.  They're  choking  to  death  be- 
hind him." 

"And  I  didn't  bet  a  cent!"  wailed  the  owner. 
"But  I  said  he  was  a  good  horse,  remember?" 

"Sure  you  did,  and  he  ...  oh,  tough  luck! 
Well,  if  that  ain't  a  dirty  shame!" 

"What  is  it?"  chattered  Hopwood.  "What 
happened?" 

"They  bumped  him  into  the  fence,  I  think. 
.  .  .  Yes,  he's  dropping  back.  And  it  looked 
like  a  cinch  for  him,  too!  ...  I'm  afraid  he 
[109] 


OLD   MAN    CURKY 


won't  get  anything  this  time.  .  .  .  Too  bad! 
Well,  that's  racing  luck  for  you.  It's  to  be  ex- 
pected in  this  game.  Sometimes  you  win  and 
sometimes  you  lose.  Good  thing  you  didn't 
bet." 

"I — I  suppose  so,"  gulped  the  unhappy 
owner.  "Well,  next  time,  eh?" 

'  *  That 's  the  proper  spirit !   Keep  after  'em ! ' ' 

Hopwood  put  on  his  glasses  in  time  to  see  the 
finish  of  the  race.  First  came  four  horses,  well 
bunched ;  after  them  the  stragglers.  Last  of  all 
a  chestnut  with  four  white  stockings  and  a  blaze 
galloped  heavily  through  the  dust,  snorting  his 
indignation.  Last  Chance  had  been  hopelessly 
last  all  the  way  in  spite  of  a  rawhide  tattoo  on 
his  flanks. 

The  Bald-faced  Kid,  wishing  to  forestall  a 
conflict  of  evidence,  made  it  his  business  to  have 
the  first  word  with  the  principal  witness.  He 
walked  beside  Little  Calamity  as  that  dispirited 
midget  shuffled  down  the  track  from  the  judges' 
stand,  saddle  and  tackle  on  his  arm.  Close  be- 
hind them  was  Hopwood,  leading  the  horse. 

"Pretty  tough  luck,"  said  the  Kid,  "getting 
bumped  in  the  stretch  when  you  had  the  race 
won."  Little  Calamity  stared  from  under  the 
peak  of  his  cap  in  blank,  uncomprehending 
amazement. 

"Huh?"  he  grunted.  "Bumped?  .  .  .  Aw, 
quitcha  kiddin'!" 

"Well,"  said  the  Kid,  "the  boss  couldn't  see 
[110] 


THE   LAST    CHANCE 


and  I  was  telling  him  about  the  race.  It  looked 
to  me  as  if  they  bumped  him." 

A  gleam  of  intelligence  lighted  the  straying 
eyes ;  instantly  the  jockey  took  his  cue. 

"Oh!"  said  he,  loudly,  "you  mean  in  the 
stretch!  Yeh,  he  had  a  swell  chance  till  then — 
goin'  nice,  and  all,  but  the  bumping  took  the 
run  out  of  him.  He  '11  beat  the  same  bunch  like 
breakin'  sticks  the  next  time."  Then,  under 
his  breath:  "You're  a  pretty  good  guy  after 
all!" 

"Well,"  was  the  ungracious  rejoinder, 
"don't  kid  yourself  that  it's  on  your  account." 

Since  it  was  his  practice  never  to  accept  the 
obvious  but  to  search  diligently  for  the  hidden 
motive  behind  every  deed,  good  or  bad,  Little 
Calamity  gave  considerable  thought  to  the  mat- 
ter and  at  last  believed  that  he  had  arrived  at 
the  only  possible  explanation  of  the  Kid's  con- 
duct. "Boss,"  said  he  that  evening,  "did  you 
bet  any  money  to-day?" 

6  i  Not  a  nickel, ' '  was  the  answer. 

"Or  give  anybody  any  money  to  bet  for 
you?" 

"No." 

"Did  anybody  ask  to  be  your  bettin'  com- 
missioner?" 

"No.    Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing.    I  just  wanted  to  know." 

Before  Little  Calamity  went  to  sleep  that 
night  he  reviewed  the  situation  somewhat  as 
follows : 

[in] 


OLD   MAN    CUKRY 


"My  dope  was  wrong,  but  it's  a  cinch  a  hust- 
ler like  the  Kid  ain't  hangin'  around  the  boss 
for  his  health.  .  .  .  And  he  didn't  kick  in  wit' 
that  alibi  because  he  loves  me  any  too  well. 
...  I  can't  figure  him  at  all." 

If  he  could  have  heard  a  conversation  then 
going  on  in  Old  Man  Curry's  tackle-room,  the 
figuring  would  have  been  easier. 

"Frank,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  had  my  eye 
on  you  to-day.  You  ain't  got  designs  on  that 
fool's  bank  roll,  have  you?" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  blew  a  cloud  of  ciga- 
rette smoke  into  the  air  and  watched  it  float 
to  the  rafters  before  he  answered  question  with 
question. 

"How  long  have  you  known  me,  old-timer!" 

"Quite  a  while,  my  son." 

"You  know  that  I  get  my  living  by  doing  the 
best  I  can!" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  ever  know  me  to  steal  anything 
from  a  blind  man?  Or  even  one  that  was  near- 
sighted?" 

"No-o." 

"Then  don't  worry  about  this  Hopwood." 

"But  he  ain't  blind — except  in  the  Scriptural 
sense." 

"Think  not,  ehT  Listen!  That  bird  can't 
see  as  far  as  the  sixteenth  pole.  Somebody 
has  got  to  watch  the  races  and  tell  him  how 
well  his  horse  is  going  or  else  he  '11  never  know. 
Think  what  he'd  miss !  I'm  his  form  chart  and 
[112] 


THE   LAST    CHANCE 


his  eyes,  old-timer,  and  all  I  charge  him  is  a 
laugh  now  and  then.    Cheap  enough,  ain't  it?" 

Old  Man  Curry  found  his  packet  of  fine-cut 
and  thrust  a  large  helping  into  his  left  cheek. 
"  'For  as  the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot,'  : 
he  quoted, ' i  '  so  is  the  laughter  of  a  fool. ' 

The  end  of  the  meeting  was  close  at  hand; 
the  next  town  on  the  Jungle  Circuit  was  pre- 
paring to  receive  the  survivors.  The  owners 
were  plotting  to  secure  that  elusive  commodity 
known  as  getaway  money ;  some  of  them  would 
have  been  glad  to  mortgage  their  chances  for  a 
receipted  feed  bill.  Last  Chance  had  started 
five  times  and  each  time  Hopwood  had  listened 
to  a  thrilling  description  of  the  race ;  the  chest- 
nut 's  performances  had  been  bad  enough  to 
strain  the  Kid's  powers  of  invention. 

On  the  eve  of  the  final  struggle  of  the  non- 
winners,  the  Kid  sat  in  grave  consultation  with 
Hopwood  and  Little  Calamity  and  the  rain 
drummed  on  the  shingle  roof  of  the  tackle 
room.  The  fat  man  was  downcast ;  he  had  been 
hinting  about  selling  Last  Chance  at  auction 
and  returning  to  Butte. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  going 
to  quit?'9  demanded  the  Kid,  incredulously. 
"Just  when  he's  getting  good?" 

"What's  the  use?"  was  the  dreary  reply. 
"Luck  is  against  me,  ain't  it?" 

"But  he's  always  knocking  at  the  door,  ain't 
he?    He's  always  right  up  there  part  of  the 
[113] 


OLD    MAN    CUKKY 


way.  You  can't  get  the  worst  of  it  every  time, 
you  know.  Be  game." 

"I've  had  the  worst  of  it  every  time  so  far," 
said  Hopwood,  with  a  dejected  shake  of  his 
head.  "Every  time.  I  swear  I  don't  know 
what's  wrong  with  that  horse.  He  looks  all 
right  and  he  acts  all  right,  but  every  time  he 
starts  something  happens.  They  bump  him  into 
the  fence  or  pocket  him  or  he  gets  a  clod  in  his 
eye  and  quits.  He's  been  last  every  time  but 
one  and  then  he  was  next  to  last.  I — I'm  sort 
of  discouraged,  boys." 

"Aw,  never  mind,  boss!"  chirped  Little  Ca- 
lamity, one  eye  on  the  Kid  and  the  other  wan- 
dering in  the  general  direction  of  the  owner. 
"To-morrow  is  another  day  and  there  ain't  a 
thing  left  in  the  nonwinner  class  for  him  to 
beat.  All  the  good  ones  are  gone.  He  worked 
fine  this  morning,  and " 

"You've  said  that  every  time." 

"Yes,  but  you're  overlooking  the  muddy 
track ! ' '  Hopwood  blinked  in  perplexity  as  the 
Kid  came  to  the  rescue  with  a  new  story. 

"The  muddy  track?  What  difference  will 
that  make?" 

"Listen  to  him!  All  the  difference  in  the 
wide  world!" 

"Yeh,"  chimed  in  Calamity.  "You  bet  it 
makes  a  difference!" 

"You're  forgetting  that  Last  Chance  is  by  a 
mudder  out  of  a  mudder,"  suavely  explained 
the  Kid.  "His  daddy  used  to  win  stakes  knee- 
[114] 


THE   LAST    CHANCE 


deep  in  it.  His  mother  liked  mud  so  well  they 
had  to  mix  it  with  her  oats  to  get  her  to  eat  reg- 
ular. What  difference  will  it  make?  Huh! 
Wait  and  see!" 

The  owner  rose,  grunting  heavily. 

"I  hope  you're  right  this  time,"  said  he. 
"Lord  knows  I've  had  disappointments  enough. 
When  I  bought  this  horse  they  guaranteed  him 
to  win  at  least  every  other  time  he  started " 

"With  an  even  break  in  the  luck,  of  course," 
interrupted  the  Kid.  "You've  got  to  have  luck 
too." 

"They  didn't  mention  anything  about  luck 
when  they  took  my  money. ' '  Hopwood  was  pos- 
itive on  this  point.  ' '  They  told  me  it  was  a  sure 
thing  and  I  wouldn't  be  in  this  mess  if  I  hadn't 
thought  it  was.  .  .  .  You  boys  talk  it  over  be- 
tween you.  I'm  going  to  ask  Mr.  Curry  if  he 
wants  to  buy  a  horse.  He  can  have  him  for  half 
what  he  cost  me." 

Hopwood  turned  up  his  collar  and  departed; 
the  two  conspirators  listened  until  his  footsteps 
died  away  down  the  row  of  stables.  "Will 
Curry  split  on  us  ? "  asked  Little  Calamity,  anx- 
iously. 

"Not  in  a  thousand  years!"  was  the  confi- 
dent reply.  "The  old  man  is  a  sport  in  his 
way.  It's  a  queer  way,  but  he's  all  right  at 
that.  He  plays  his  own  string  and  lets  you 
play  yours.  Hopwood  will  find  out  what  Solo- 
mon says  about  buying  strange  horses,  but  the 
old  man  won't  tip  your  hand  or  mine.  Queer 
[115] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


genius,  Curry  is.  ...  Well,  your  sucker  has 
lasted  longer  than  I  thought  he  would.  ' ' 

"And  now  he's  getting  onto  himself, "  said 
Calamity  mournfully. 

"  He 's  not.    He 's  getting  cold  feet. ' ' 

"To-morrow  is  the  last  crack  we'll  get  at 
him.  .  .  .  Can  this  beagle  run  in  the  mud?" 

"How  do  I  know?  I  was  only  stringing 
him." 

Little  Calamity  sighed  and  the  Kid  rose  to 
take  his  departure. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  said  the  other.  "Don't 
go  yet.  Maybe  this  horse  will  do  better  in  the 
mud.  You  don't  know  and  I  don't  know,  but 
he  might." 

"What  he  might  do  ain't  worrying  me,"  said 
the  Kid. 

"Listen  a  second.  Maybe  you  won't  believe 
it,  but  I've  been  on  the  up  and  up  with  the 
boss.  Honest,  I  have.  I  could  have  tipped  one 
of  the  other  hustlers  to  tout  him  and  sink  the 
money  for  a  split,  but — well,  I  didn't  do  it, 
that's  all.  He  was  white  to  me  and  I  tried  to 
be  white  too,  see?  I  even  told  him  not  to  bet 
on  the  horse  until  I  gave  him  the  office,  and  so 
far  we've  been  running  for  nothing  but  the 
purse.  You  haven't  touted  him  either " 

"Draw  your  bat  and  make  a  quick  finish!" 
said  the  Kid  shortly.  "What's  it  all  about?" 

"Suppose  I  should  talk  him  into  putting  a 
bet  down  to-morrow?" 

"A  bet  on  what?" 

[116] 


THE   LAST   CHANCE 


"On  Last  Chance.  It  ain't  no  crime  for  a 
man  to  bet  on  his  own  horse,  is  it?  He  told 
me  he'd  give  me  a  percentage  of  what  he  won. 
Maybe  the  old  crow-bait  will  go  better  in  the 
mud,  and  I'll  ride  him  until  his  eyes  stick  out 
a  foot.  We  might  accidentally  get  down  there 
to  the  judges'  stand  in  front,  and " 

"And  still  you  haven't  said  anything,"  in- 
terrupted the  Kid.  "You  want  something; 
what  is  it?" 

"I  want  you  not  to  queer  the  play.  Hop- 
wood  won't  bet  much;  like  as  not  he  won't  bet 
anything  without  putting  it  up  to  you  first. 
It's  my  last  chance  to  pick  up  a  piece  of 
change " 

"Last  chance  on  Last  Chance,"  mused  the 
Kid,  "and  that's  a  hunch,  but  I  wouldn't  play 
it  with  counterfeit  Confederate  money." 

"But  if  he  comes  to  you,  you  won't  knock  it, 
will  you?" 

"I'll  tell  him  that  as  an  owner  he  ought  to 
use  his  own  judgment.  If  he  wants  to  bet,  I'll 
see  that  he  gets  the  top  price." 

"You  are  a  good  guy!"  said  Little  Calamity. 
"I  think  Last  Chance  will  be  a  better  horse  to- 
morrow— somehow. ' ' 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  shot  a  keen  glance  at 
the  jockey. 

"What  do  you  mean,  a  better  horse?  A  pow- 
der on  his  tongue,  maybe?" 

Calamity  shook  his  head. 

"I  never  hopped  a  horse;  I  wouldn't  know 
[117] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


how  to  go  about  it.  If  I  got  to  fooling  with 
them  speed  powders  I  might  give  him  too  much 
and  have  him  climbing  a  tree  on  the  way  to  the 
post.  .  .  .  Cheese  it!  Here  comes  the  boss!" 

Hopwood  entered,  shaking  the  water  from  the 
brim  of  his  hat,  his  lower  lip  sagging  and  an 
angry  light  in  his  eye. 

"Well,11  asked  the  Kid  from  the  doorway, 
"what  did  Curry  say?" 

"Umph!"  grunted  the  fat  man,  disgustedly. 
"He  read  me  a  chapter  out  of  Proverbs.  It 
was  all  about  the  difference  between  a  wise  man 
and  a  fool.  Confound  it!  He  needn't  have 
rubbed  it  in ! " 

It  was  the  last  race  of  the  day  and  from  their 
sheltered  pagoda  the  judges  looked  out  upon 
the  river  of  mud  which  had  been  the  home 
stretch.  Forty-eight  hours  of  rain  had  turned 
it  into  a  grand  canal.  The  presiding  judge 
scowled  as  he  examined  the  opening  odds. 
"Nonwinners,  eh?  Same  old  bunch  of  hounds. 
Grayling,  2  to  1 ;  Ivy  Leaf,  4  to  1 ;  Montezuma, 
10  to  1 ;  Bluestone,  10  to  1 ;  Alibi,  15  to  1 ;  Stuffy 
Eaton,  25  to  1 — and  here's  Last  Chance  again! 
I  wonder  where  Hopwood  got  that  horse?  Ee- 
member  him,  two  years  ago  at  Butte  ?  I  thought 
he  was  pulling  a  junk  wagon  by  now.  Last 
Chance,  50  to  1.  Jockey  Gillis;  hm-m-m. 
There's  a  sweet  combination  for  you!  A  horse 
that  can't  untrack  himself,  a  jockey  that  never 
rode  a  winner,  and  a  half-witted  grocer !  Why 
couldn't  the  chump  stick  to  the  little  villainies 
[118] 


THE   LAST   CHANCE 


that  he  knows  about — sanding  the  sugar  and 
watering  the  kerosene?  I  declare,  sir,  if  I  had 
half  an  excuse  I'd  refuse  the  entry  of  that  horse 
and  warn  Hopwood  away  from  here !  It  would 
be  an  act  of  Christian  charity  to  do  it." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid,  faithful  to  the  bitter  end, 
assisted  in  the  paddock  as  usual.  Last  Chance, 
his  tail  braided  in  a  hard  knot  and  minus  the 
ribbons  in  his  mane,  submitted  to  the  saddling 
process  with  unusual  docility.  His  customary 
attitude  of  protest  seemed  to  be  swallowed  up 
in  a  gloomy  acquiescence  to  fate.  It  was  as  if 
he  said :  ' '  You  can  do  this  to  me  again  if  you 
want  to,  but  I  assure  you  now  that  it  is  useless, 
quite  useless." 

Calamity  leaned  down  from  the  saddle  and 
whispered  in  the  Kid's  ear: 

"You  can  get  50  and  60  to  1  on  him!  The 
boss  said  he'd  make  a  bet.  Don't  let  him  over- 
look it!" 

When  the  bugle  sounded,  Hopwood  grasped 
the  bridle  and  led  the  horse  through  the  chute 
to  the  track.  The  rain  beat  hard  upon  his 
hunched  shoulders  and  his  feet  plowed  heavily 
through  the  puddles.  Eepeated  failure  had 
robbed  him  of  the  pride  of  ownership  and  all 
confidence  in  horseflesh.  He  was,  as  the  Bald- 
faced  Kid  said  to  himself,  "a  sad  looking 
mess."  Hopwood  spoke  but  once,  wasting  no 
words. 

"Make  good  if  you're  going  to,"  said  he 
tersely,  "because  win  or  lose  I'm  through!" 
[119] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


"Yes,  boss,  and  don't  forget  what  I  told  yon. 
To-day's  the  day  to  bet  on  him.  Go  to  it!" 

Last  Chance  splashed  away  down  the  track 
and  Hopwood  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  growl. 

' '  Come  along ! ' '  said  he  to  the  Kid.  '  '  I  might 
as  well  be  all  the  different  kinds  of  fool  while 
I'm  about  it!" 

"Where  to  now!"  asked  the  Kid  innocently. 

"To  the  betting  ring,"  was  the  grim  re- 
sponse. "I  said  I'd  bet  on  him  this  time  and 
I  will!  Come  along!" 

From  his  perch  on  the  inside  rail  the  official 
starter  eyed  the  nonwinners  with  undisguised 
malevolence.  Some  of  them  were  cantering 
steadily  toward  the  barrier,  some  were  walking 
and  one,  a  black  brute,  seemed  almost  unman- 
ageable, advancing  in  a  series  of  wild  plunges 
and  sudden  sidesteps. 

"Ah,  hah,"  said  the  starter,  with  suitable 
profanity.  "Old  Alibi  has  got  his  hop  in  him 
again !  I'll  recommend  the  judges  to  refuse  his 
entry."  Then,  to  his  assistant:  "Jake,  take 
hold  of  that  crazy  black  thing  and  lead  him  up 
here.  Don't  let  go  of  his  head  for  a  second  or 
he  '11  be  all  over  the  place !  Lively  now !  I  want 
to  get  out  of  this  rain.  .  .  .  Walk  'em  up,  you 
crook-legged  little  devils!  Walk  'em  up,  I 
say!" 

Last  Chance  advanced  sedately  to  his  posi- 
tion, which  was  on  the  outer  rail.  Grayling, 
the  favourite,  had  drawn  the  inner  rail.  Jake, 
obeying  orders,  swung  his  weight  on  Alibi's  bit 
[120] 


THE  LAST   CHANCE 


and  dragged  the  rearing,  plunging  creature  into 
the  middle  of  the  line.  At  that  instant  the 
starter  jerked  the  trigger  and  yelled : 

"Come  on!    Come  on!" 

The  whole  thing  happened  in  the  nicker  of 
an  eyelid.  As  Jake  released  his  hold,  Alibi 
whirled  at  right  angles  and  bolted  for  the  in- 
ner rail,  carrying  Grayling,  Ivy  Leaf,  Satsuma, 
and  Jolson  with  him.  They  crashed  into  the 
fence,  a  squealing,  kicking  tangle,  above  which 
rose  the  shrill,  frightened  yells  of  the  jockeys. 
This  left  but  four  horses  in  the  race,  and  one 
of  them,  old  Last  Chance,  passed  under  the 
barrier  with  a  wild  bound  which  all  but  unseat- 
ed his  rider.  It  was  not  his  habit  to  display 
such  unseemly  haste  in  getting  away  from  the 
post  and,  to  do  him  justice,  Last  Chance  was 
no  less  surprised — and  shocked — than  a  certain 
young  man  of  our  acquaintance. 

"Well,  look  at  that  lizard  go!"  gasped  the 
Bald-faced  Kid.  "Look — at — him — go!" 

"Honest  Injun?"  asked  Hopwood.  "Is  he 
going — really  I ' ' 

"Is  he  going!  He's  going  crazy!  And  lis- 
ten to  this!  That  black  thing  carried  a  big 
bunch  of  'em  into  the  fence  and  they're  out  of 
it!  Only  four  in  the  race  and  we're  away  fly- 
ing !  Do  you  get  that  f  Flying ! " 

"Honest!" 

"Can't  you  hear  the  crowd  hissing  the  rotten 
start?" 

[121] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


"Well,"  said  Hopwood,  "it — it's  about  time 
I  had  a  little  luck." 

"That  skate  has  got  something  besides  luck 
with  him  to-day ! ' '  exclaimed  the  Kid.  *  '  I  won- 
der now — did  he  try  a  powder  after  all?  But 
no,  he  was  quiet  enough  on  the  way  to  the 
post.'; 

Seeing  nothing  ahead  of  him  but  mud  and 
water,  Jockey  Gillis  steered  Last  Chance  toward 
the  inner  rail. 

"Don't  you  quit  on  me,  you  crab!"  he  mut- 
tered. "Don't  you  quit!  Keep  goin'  if  you 
don't  want  me  to  put  the  bee  on  you  again! 
Hi-ya!" 

Montezuma,  Bluestone,  and  Stuffy  Eaton 
were  the  other  survivors — bad  horses  all.  Their 
riders,  realizing  that  something  had  happened 
to  the  real  contenders,  drove  them  hard  and 
on  the  upper  turn  Jockey  Gillis,  peering  over 
his  shoulder,  saw  that  he  was  about  to  have 
competition.  He  began  to  boot  Last  Chance  in 
the  ribs,  but  the  aged  chestnut  refused  to  re- 
spond to  such  ordinary  treatment. 

"All  right!"  said  Jockey  Gillis,  savagely. 
"If  you  won't  run  for  the  spurs,  you'll  run 
for  this!"  And  he  drove  his  clenched  fist 
against  the  horse's  shoulder.  Last  Chance 
grunted  and  did  his  best  to  leap  out  from  under 
his  tormentor.  Failing  in  this  he  spurted  craz- 
fljr  and  the  gap  widened. 

"There  it  goes  again!"  muttered  the  Kid, 
under  his  breath.  "He's  pretty  raw  with  it. 
[122] 


THE  LAST    CHANCE 


Now  if  the  judges  notice  the  way  that  horse  is 
running  they  may  frisk  Calamity  for  an  elec- 
tric battery  and  if  they  find  one  on  him — good 
night!'' 

" Where  is  he  now!"  demanded  Hopwood. 

66 Still  in  front— if  he  can  stay  there." 

" Honest— is  he?" 

"Ask  anybody!"  howled  the  Kid,  in  sudden 
anger.  "You  don't  need  to  take  my  word  for 
it!" 

At  the  paddock  gate  Last  Chance  was  rock- 
ing from  side  to  side  with  weariness  and  the 
pursuit  was  closing  in  on  him.  Jockey  Gillis 
measured  the  distance  to  the  wire  and  waited 
until  Montezuma  and  Bluestone  drew  alongside. 
Twenty-five  feet  from  home  his  fist  thumped 
Last  Chance  on  the  shoulder  again.  The  big 
chestnut  answered  with  a  frenzied  bound  and 
came  floundering  under  the  wire,  a  winner  by 
a  neck. 

"He  won!"  cried  Hopwood.  "That— that 
was  him  in  front,  wasn't  it?" 

"That  was  what's  left  of  him,"  was  the  re- 
sponse. "Maybe  we'd  better  not  cheer  until 
the  judges  give  us  the  l official'  on  those  num- 
bers. I've  got  a  hunch  they  may  want  to  see 
Jock  Gillis  in  the  stand."  And  to  himself: 
"The  fool!  He  handed  it  to  him  again  right 
under  their  noses!  Does  he  think  the  judges 
are  cockeyed  too?" 

"Here's  our  chance  to  get  rid  of  the  grocer," 
said  the  presiding  judge  to  his  associate.  "Did 
[123] 


OLD   MAN    CUEKY 


you  notice  the  way  that  horse  acted?  The  boy's 
got  a  battery  on  him,  sure  as  guns!7' 

One  hundred  yards  from  the  wire  Last 
Chance  checked  to  a  walk  and  as  Jockey  Gillis 
turned  the  horse  he  tossed  a  small,  dark  object 
over  the  inside  fence.  It  fell  in  a  puddle  of 
water  and  disappeared  from  sight.  When  the 
winner  staggered  stiffly  into  the  ring,  Gillis 
flicked  the  visor  of  his  cap  with  his  whip. 
"  Judges  ?"  he  piped. 

The  presiding  judge  answered  the  salute  with 
a  nod,  but  later  when  the  rider  was  leaving  the 
weighing  room,  he  halted  him  with  a  curt  com- 
mand. 

" Bring  that  tack  up  here,  boy!" 

The  investigation,  while  brief,  was  thorough. 
The  judges  examined  the  saddle  carefully  for 
copper  stitching,  looked  at  the  butt  end  of  the 
whip,  ran  their  hands  over  Calamity's  thin  loins 
and  last  of  all  felt  in  his  boot-legs  for  wires 
connected  with  the  spurs.  All  this  time  Jockey 
Gillis  might  have  been  posing  as  a  statue  of 
outraged  innocence. 

" Nothing  on  him,"  said  the  presiding  judge 
shortly.  "Hang  up  the  official." 

Jockey  Gillis  bowed  and  saluted. 

"Judges,  can  I  go  now!"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  said  the  presiding  judge,  "and  don't 
come  back.  You're  warned  off,  understand?" 

"Judges,"  whined  Jockey  Gillis,  "I  ain't 
done  a  thing  wrong.  That  old  horse,  he " 

"Git!"  said  the  presiding  judge.  "Now 
[124] 


THE  LAST   CHANCE 


where  is  that  man  Hop  wood?  If  he  bet  much 
money  on  this  race " 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  was  waiting  at  the  pad- 
dock gate.  He  greeted  Little  Calamity  with 
blistering  sarcasm. 

"You're  a  sweet  little  boy,  ain't  you!  A 
nice  little  boy !  Here  I  stall  for  you  for  weeks 
and  you  didn't  even  tell  me  that  the  old  skate 
was  going  to  have  the  Thomas  A.  Edison  trim- 
mings with  him  to-day ! ' ' 

"Honest,"  said  the  jockey,  "I  didn't  think 
there  was  enough  'lectricity  in  the  world  to 
make  it  a  cinch.  I  took  a  long  chance  myself, 
that's  all.  I  had  to  do  it." 

"And  got  caught  with  the  battery  on  you, 
too.  Didn't  you  know  any  better 'n  to  slip  him 
the  juice  right  in  front  of  the  wire?  Think 
those  judges  are  blind?" 

"Well,"  said  Little  Calamity,  "I  don't  know 
how  good  their  eyes  are,  at  that.  Jock  Hen- 
nessey, he's  been  riding  with  a  hand  buzzer 
every  time  the  stable  checks  are  down.  This 
morning  he  loaned  it  to  me." 

"Oh,  it  was  a  hand  buzzer,  eh?" 

"Sure.  I  chucked  it  over  the  fence  when  I 
was  turning  him  around  after  the  race." 

"Fine  work.  What  did  the  judges  say  to 
you?" 

"They  warned  me  away  from  the  track.    I 

should  worry.     There's   other  tracks.     Only 

thing  is,  they've  got  Hop  wood  in  the  stand  now, 

and  he'll  be  fool  enough  to  tell  'em  this  was  the 

[125] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


first  time  lie  bet  on  the  horse.  Somehow,  I'd 
hate  to  see  the  old  bird  get  into  trouble.  .  .  . 
Say,  by  the  way,  how  much  did  he  bet?" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  began  to  laugh.  He 
laughed  until  he  had  to  lean  on  the  rail  for 
support. 

'  '  Don 't  worry, ' '  said  he,  at  last.  ' i  The  judges 
won't  be  too  hard  on  him.  He  hunted  all  over 
the  ring  until  he  found  some  75  to  1  and  then 
he  bet  the  wad — two  great  big  iron  dobey  dol- 
lars— all  at  once,  mind  you!" 

"Two  dollars!"  gasped  Little  Calamity. 
"Two  dollars?" 

"It  serves  you  right  for  not  letting  me  know 
about  the  buzzer !  I'd  have  made  him  bet  more. 
As  it  stands,  your  cut  will  be  seventy-five — if 
he  splits  with  you,  and  I  think  he  will.  That's 
a  lot  of  money — when  you  haven't  got  it." 

"Bah!  Chicken  feed!"  This  with  an  almost 
lordly  scorn.  "It's  a  good  thing  those  judges 
didn't  take  off  my  boots.  Then  they  would  have 
found  something!"  He  fumbled  for  a  moment 
and  produced  eight  pasteboards.  "I  had  six- 
teen dollars  saved  up  and  one  of  the  boys  bet 
it  for  me — every  nickel  of  it  on  the  nose.  Sev- 
enty-five dollars!  I'm  over  eight  hundred  win- 
ner to  the  race!" 

"Holy  mackerel!"  ejaculated  the  Kid. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  that 
money?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  buy  a  diamond  pin  and  a  gold 
watch  and  a  ring  with  a  red  stone  in  it  and  a 
[126] 


THE   LAST    CHANCE 


suit  of  clothes  and  an  overcoat  and  a  derby  hat 
and  a  pair  of  silk  socks  and  a  porterhouse  steak 
four  inches  thick  and  a " 

6  <  E— nough ! ' '  said  the  Kid.  < '  Sufficient !  If 
there's  anything  left  over,  you  better  erect  a 
monument  to  the  guy  that  discovered  elec- 
tricity!" 

This  happened  long  ago.  Hopwood 's  grocery 
store  still  does  a  flourishing  business.  Over 
the  cash  register  hangs  a  crayon  portrait  of  a 
large  yellow  horse  with  four  white  stockings 
and  a  blaze.  The  original  of  the  portrait  hauls 
the  Hopwood  delivery  wagon.  Irritated  team- 
sters sometimes  ask  Mr.  Hopwood 's  delivery 
man  why  he  does  not  drive  where  he  is  looking. 


[127] 


SANGUINARY  JEREMIAH 


IT  was  not  yet  dawn,  but  Old  Man  Curry  was 
abroad;   more   than   that,   he   was    fully 
dressed.    It  was  a  tradition  of  the  Jungle 
Circuit  that  he  had  never  been  seen  in  any 
other   condition.     The    owner   of   the   "  Bible 
horses, "  in  shirt  sleeves  and  bareheaded,  would 
have  created  a  sensation  among  his  competing 
brethren,  some  of  whom  pretended  to  believe 
that  the  patriarch  slept  in  his  clothes.   Others, 
not  so  positive  on  this  point,  averred  that  Old 
Man  Curry  slept  with  one  eye  open  and  one 
ear  cocked  toward  the  O'Connor  barn,  where 
his  enemies  met  to  plot  against  him. 

Summer  and  winter,  heat  and  cold,  there  was 
never  a  change  in  the  old  man's  raiment.  The 
rusty  frock  coat — black  where  it  was  not  green, 
grey  along  the  seams,  and  ravelled  at  the  skirts 
— the  broad-brimmed  and  battered  slouch  hat, 
and  the  frayed  string  tie  had  seen  fat  years 
and  lean  years  on  all  the  tracks  of  the  Jungle 
Circuit,  and  no  man  could  say  when  these  things 
had  been  new  or  their  wearer  had  been  young. 
[128] 


SANGUINARY   JEREMIAH 


Old  Man  Curry  was  a  fixture,  as  familiar  a 
sight  as  the  fence  about  the  track,  and  his  shab- 
by attire  was  as  much  a  part  of  his  quaint 
personality  as  his  habit  of  quoting  the  wise  men 
of  the  Old  Testament  and  borrowing  the  names 
of  the  prophets  for  his  horses. 

The  first  faint  golden  glow  appeared  in  the 
east;  the  adjoining  stables  loomed  dark  in  the 
half  light ;  here  and  there  lanterns  moved,  and 
close  at  hand  rose  the  wail  of  a  sleepy  exercise 
boy,  roused  from  slumber  by  a  liberal  applica- 
tion of  rawhide.  From  the  direction  of  the 
track  came  the  muffled  beat  of  hoofs,  swelling  to 
a  crescendo,  and  diminishing  to  a  thin  tattoo  as 
the  thoroughbreds  rounded  the  upper  turn. 

Old  Man  Curry  squared  his  shoulders, 
turned  his  face  toward  the  east,  and  saluted  the 
dawn  in  characteristic  fashion. 

"  'A  time  to  get  and  a  time  to  lose;  a  time  to 
keep  and  a  time  to  cast  away,'  "  he  quoted. 
"  Solomon  was  framin'  up  a  system  for  hoss- 
men,  I  reckon.  'A  time  to  get  and  a  time  to 
lose.'  Only  thing  is,  Solomon  himself  couldn't 
figure  which  was  which  with  some  of  these  ras- 
cals! Oh,Mose!" 

'  *  Yessuh,  boss !    Comin  M  " 

Jockey  Moseby  Jones  emerged  from  the 
tackle-room,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  one  hand  and 
tugging  at  his  sweater  with  the  other.  Later  in 
the  day  he  would  be  a  butterfly  of  fashion  and 
an  offence  to  the  eye  in  loud  checks  and  conflict- 
ing colours ;  now  he  was  only  a  very  sleepy  lit- 
[129] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


tie  darky  in  a  dingy  red  sweater  and  disrepu- 
table trousers. 

"Seem  like  to  me  I  ain't  had  no  sleep  a-a-a- 
tall,"  complained  Mose,  swallowing  a  tremen- 
dous yawn.  "This  yer  night  work  sutny  got 
me  goin'  south  for  fair." 

Shanghai,  the  hostler,  appeared  leading 
Elisha,  the  star  of  the  Curry  barn. 

"Send  him  the  full  distance,  Mose,"  said  the 
aged  owner,  "and  set  him  down  hard  for  the 
half-mile  pole  home." 


"As  hard  as  he  can  go." 

"But,  boss  -  "  There  was  a  note  of  strong 
protest  in  the  jockey's  voice. 

"You  heard  me,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  al- 
ready striding  in  the  direction  of  the  track. 
"Extend  him  and  let's  see  what  he's  got." 

"Extend  him  so's  eve'ybody  kin  see  whut 
he's  got!"  mumbled  Mose  rebelliously. 
"Huh!" 

In  the  shadow  of  the  paddock  Old  Man  Curry 
came  upon  his  friend,  the  Bald-faced  Kid,  a 
youth  of  many  failings,  frankly  confessed.  The 
Kid  sat  upon  the  fence,  nursing  an  old-fash- 
ioned silver  stop  watch,  for  he  was  "clocking" 
the  morning  workouts. 

"Morning,  Frank,"  said  Old  Man  Curry. 
"You're  early." 

"But  not  early  enough  for  some  of  these 
birds,"  responded  the  Kid.  "You  galloping 
something,  old-timer  ?  '  ' 

[130] 


SANGUINARY   JEREMIAH 


"  'Lisha'll  work  in  a  minute  or  two." 

"Uh-huh.  I  kind  of  figured  you'd  throw  an- 
other work  into  him  before  to-morrow's  race. 
Confound  it !  If  I  didn't  know  you  pretty  well, 
I'd  say  you  ought  to  have  your  head  examined! 
I'd  say  they  ought  to  crawl  your  cupola  for 
loose  shingles!" 

"And  if  you  didn't  know  me  at  all,  Frank, 
you'd  say  I  was  just  plain  crazy,  eh?"  Old 
Man  Curry  regarded  his  young  friend  with 
thoughtful  gravity.  Here  were  two  wise  men 
of  the  turf  approaching  truth  from  widely 
varying  standpoints,  yet  able  to  meet  on  com- 
mon ground  and  exchange  convictions  to  mutual 
profit.  "Spit  it  out,  son,"  said  Old  Man  Curry. 
"I'd  sort  of  like  to  know  how  crazy  I  am." 

"Fair  enough!"  said  the  Bald-faced  Kid. 
"Elisha's  a  good  horse — a  cracking  good  horse 
— but  to-morrow's  the  end  of  the  meeting  and 
you've  gone  and  saved  him  up  to  slip  him  into 
the  toughest  race  on  the  card — on  a  day  when 
all  the  burglars  at  the  track  will  be  levelling 
for  the  get-away  money !  You  could  have  found 
a  softer  spot  for  him  to  pick  up  a  purse,  and, 
take  it  from  me,  the  winner's  end  is  about  all 
you'll  get  around  here.  The  bookmakers  lost 
a  lot  of  confidence  in  human  nature  when  you 
pulled  that  horsehair  stunt  on  'em,  and  they 
wouldn't  give  you  a  price  now,  not  even  if  you 
started  a  nice  motherly  old  cow  against  stake 
horses.  As  for  Elisha — the  bookies  begin 
reaching  for  the  erasers  the  minute  they  hear 
[131] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


his  name!  You  couldn't  bet  'em  diamonds 
against  doughnuts  on  that  horse.  They've 
been  stung  too  often." 

" Maybe  I  wasn't  aiming  to  bet  on  him,"  was 
the  mild  reply. 

"Then  why  put  him  up  against  such  a  hard 
game?" 

"Oh,  it  was  a  kind  of  a  notion  I  had.  I  know 
it'll  be  a  tough  race.  Engle  is  in  there,  and 
O'Connor  and  a  lot  more  that  have  been  under 
cover.  'Lisha  is  goin'  a  mile  this  morning. 
Better  catch  him  when  he  breaks.  He's  off!" 

Whatever  Jockey  Moseby  Jones  thought  of 
his  orders,  he  knew  better  than  to  disobey  them. 
He  sent  Elisha  the  distance,  driving  him  hard 
from  the  half-mile  pole  to  the  wire,  and  the 
Bald-faced  Kid's  astounded  comments  fur- 
nished a  profane  obbligato. 

"Take  a  look  at  that!"  said  he,  thrusting  the 
watch  under  Old  Man  Curry's  nose.  "Pretty 
close  to  the  track  record  for  a  mile,  ain't  it? 
And  every  clocker  on  the  track  got  him  too! 
If  I  was  you  I'd  peel  the  hide  off  that  nigger 
for  showing  a  horse  up  like  that!" 

"No-o,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  "I  reckon  I 
won't  lick  Mose — this  time.  You  forgot  that 
Jeremiah  is  goin'  in  the  last  race  to-morrow, 
didn't  you?" 

"Jeremiah!"  The  Bald-faced  Kid  spoke 
with  scorn.  "Why,  he  bleeds  every  time  out! 
It's  a  shame  to  start  him!" 

"Maybe  he  won't  bleed  to-morrow,  Frank." 
[132] 


SANGUINARY   JEREMIAH 


"He  won't,  eh?"  The  Bald-faced  Kid  drew 
out  the  leather-hacked  volume  which  was  his 
constant  companion,  and  began  to  thumb  the 
leaves  rapidly.  "You're  always  heaving  your 
friend  Solomon  at  me.  I'll  give  you  a  quota- 
tion I  got  out  of  the  Fourth  Eeader  at  school — 
something  about  judging  the  future  by  the  past. 
Look  here :  'Jeremiah  bled  and  was  pulled  up.' 
'Jeremiah  bled  badly.'  Why,  everybody  around 
here  knows  that  he's  a  bleeder!" 

"There  you  go  again,"  said  Old  Man  Curry 
patiently.  "You  study  them  dad-burned  dope 
sheets,  and  all  you  can  see  is  what  a  hoss  has 
done.  You  listen  to  me:  it  ain't  what  a  hoss 
did  last  week  or  last  month — it's  what  he's 
goin'  to  do  to-day  that  counts." 

"A  quitter  will  quit  and  a  bleeder  will  bleed," 
said  the  Kid  sententiously. 

"And  Jeremiah  says  the  leopard  can't  change 
his  spots,"  said  Old  Man  Curry.  "Have  it 
your  own  way,  Frank." 

Exactly  twenty-four  hours  later  the  Bald- 
faced  Kid,  peering  across  the  track  to  the  back 
stretch,  saw  Old  Man  Curry  lead  a  black  horse 
to  the  quarter  pole,  exchange  a  few  words  with 
Mose,  adjust  the  bit,  and  stand  aside. 

"What's  that  one,  Kid?"  The  question  was 
asked  by  Shine  McManus,  a  professional  clock- 
er  employed  by  a  bookmaker  to  time  the  various 
workouts  and  make  a  report  on  them  at  noon. 

' '  That 's  Jeremiah, ' '  said  the  Kid.    «  '  The  old 
man  hasn't  worked  him  much  lately." 
[133] 


OLD  MAN    CUBBY 


"Good  reason  why,"  said  Shine.  "I 
wouldn't  work  a  horse  either  if  he  bled  every 
time  he  got  out  of  a  walk !  There  he  goes ! ' ' 

Jeremiah  went  to  the  half  pole  like  the  wind, 
slacked  somewhat  on  the  upper  turn,  and  floun- 
dered heavily  into  the  stretch. 

"Bleeding,  ain't  he?"  asked  Shine. 

"He  acts  like  it — yes,  you  can  see  it  now." 

As  Jeremiah  neared  the  paddock  he  stopped 
to  a  choppy  gallop,  and  the  railbirds  saw  that 
blood  was  streaming  from  both  nostrils  and 
trickling  from  his  mouth. 

"Ain't  that  sickening?  You  wouldn't  think 
that  Old  Man  Curry  would  abuse  a  horse  like 
that!" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  went  valiantly  to  the  de- 
fence of  his  aged  friend.  He  would  criticise 
Old  Man  Curry  if  he  saw  fit,  but  no  one  else 
had  that  privilege. 

"Aw,  where  do  you  get  that  abusing-a-horse 
stuff?  It  don't  really  hurt  a  horse  any  more'n 
it  would  hurt  you  to  have  a  good  nosebleed.  It 
just  chokes  him  up  so't  he  can't  get  his  breath, 
and  he  quits,  that's  all." 

"Yes,  but  it  looks  bad,  and  it's  a  shame  to 
start  a  horse  in  that  condition." 

The  argument  waxed  long  and  loud,  and  in 
the  end  the  Kid  was  vanquished,  borne  down  by 
superior  numbers.  The  popular  verdict  was 
that  Old  Man  Curry  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself  for  owning  and  starting  a  confirmed 
bleeder  like  Jeremiah. 

[134] 


SANGUINARY   JEREMIAH 


On  get-away  day  the  speculative  soul  whose 
financial  operations  show  a  loss  makes  a  deter- 
mined effort  to  plunge  a  red-ink  balance  into 
a  black  one.  On  get-away  day  the  honest  owner 
has  doubts  and  the  dishonest  owner  has  fears. 
On  get-away  day  the  bookmaker  wears  deep 
creases  in  his  brow,  for  few  horses  are  "laid 
up"  with  him,  and  he  wonders  which  dead  one 
will  come  to  life.  On  get-away  day  the  tout 
redoubles  his  activities,  hoping  to  be  far  away 
before  his  victims  awake  to  a  sense  of  injury. 
On  get-away  day  the  program  boy  bawls  his 
loudest  and  the  hot-dog  purveyor  pushes  his 
fragrant  wares  with  the  utmost  energy.  On 
get-away  day  the  judges  are  more  than  usually 
alert,  scenting  outward  indications  of  a  "job." 
On  get-away  day  the  betting  ring  boils  and 
seethes  and  bubbles;  the  prices  are  short  and 
arguments  are  long;  strange  stories  are  cur- 
rent and  disquieting  rumours  hang  in  the  very 
air. 

"Now,  if  ever!"  is  the  motto. 

"Shoot  'em  in  the  back  and  run!"  is  the 
spirit  of  the  day,  reduced  to  words. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  feverish  excitement, 
Old  Man  Curry  maintained  his  customary  calm. 
He  had  seen  many  get-away  days  on  many 
tracks.  Elisha  was  entered  in  the  fourth  race, 
the  feature  event  of  the  day,  and  promptly  on 
the  dot  Elisha  appeared  in  the  paddock,  steam- 
ing after  a  brisk  gallop  down  the  stretch. 

Soon  there  came  a  wild  rush  from  the  betting 
[135] 


OLD    MAN    CUEEY 


ring;  the  prices  were  up  and  Elisha  ruled  the 
opening  favourite  at  7  to  5.  Did  Mr.  Curry 
think  that  Elisha  could  win?  Wasn't  the  price  a 
little  short  f  In  case  Mr.  Curry  had  any  doubts 
about  Elisha,  what  other  horse  did  he  favour? 
The  old  man  answered  all  questions  patiently, 
courteously,  and  truthfully — and  patience,  cour- 
tesy, and  truth  seldom  meet  in  the  paddock. 

We-ell,  about  'Lisha,  now,  he  was  an  honest 
hoss  and  he  would  try  as  hard  to  win  at  7  to  5 
as  any  other  price.  'Lisha  was  trained  not  to 
look  in  the  bettin'  ring  on  the  way  to  the  post. 
Ye-es,  'Lisha  had  a  chance;  he  always  had  a 
chance  'count  of  bein'  honest  and  doin'  the  best 
he  knowed  how.  The  other  owners?  Well, 
now,  it  was  this  way:  he  couldn't  really  say 
what  they  was  up  to;  he  expected,  though, 
they'd  all  be  tryin'.  Himself  per  son 'ly,  he  only 
bothered  about  his  own  hosses;  they  kept  his 
hands  full.  Was  Engle  going  to  bet  on  Corn- 
flower? Well,  about  Engle — hm-m-m.  He's 
right  over  there,  sonny;  better  ask  him. 

After  Little  Mose  had  been  given  his  riding 
orders — briefly,  they  were  to  do  the  best  he 
could  and  come  home  in  front  if  possible — Old 
Man  Curry  turned  Elisha  over  to  Shanghai  and 
went  into  the  betting  ring.  Elisha 's  price  was 
still  7  to  5.  The  old  man  paused  in  front  of 
the  first  book,  a  thick  wallet  in  his  fingers.  The 
bookmaker,  a  red-eyed,  dyspeptic-looking  per- 
son, glanced  down,  recognised  the  flowing  white 
beard  under  the  slouch  hat,  took  note  of  the 
[136] 


SANGUINARY   JEREMIAH 


thick  wallet,  and  with  one  swipe  of  his  eraser 
sent  Elisha  to  even  money. 

"That's  it!  Squawk  before  you're  hurt!" 
grunted  Elisha 's  owner,  shouldering  his  way 
through  the  crowd  to  the  next  stand. 

This  bookmaker  was  an  immensely  fat  gen- 
tleman with  purplish  jowls  and  piggy  eyes 
which  narrowed  to  slits  as  they  rested  upon  the 
corpulent  roll  of  bills  which  Old  Man  Curry 
was  holding  up  to  him. 

"Don't  want  it,"  he  wheezed. 

"What  ails  it!"  Old  Man  Curry's  voice 
rose  in  a  high,  piping  treble,  shrill  with  wrath. 
"It's  good  money.  I  got  some  of  it  from  you. 
Your  slate  says  6  to  5,  'Lisha." 

"Don't  want  it,"  repeated  the  bookmaker, 
his  eyes  roving  over  the  crowd.  "Get  it  next 
door." 

"That's  a  fine  howdy-do!"  snapped  the  ex- 
asperated old  man.  "I  can't  bet  on  my  own 
horse — at  a  short  price,  too!" 

Word  ran  around  the  betting  ring  that  Old 
Man  Curry  was  trying  to  bet  so  much  money 
on  Elisha  that  the  bookmakers  refused  his 
wagers,  and  there  was  an  immediate  stampede 
for  the  betting  booths  and  a  demand  for  Elisha 
at  any  figure. 

The  third  bookmaker  forestalled  all  argu- 
ment by  wiping  out  the  prophet's  price  entirely, 
while  the  crowd  jeered. 

"Does  a  bet  scare  you  that  bad!"  asked  Old 
Man  Curry  with  sarcasm. 
[137] 


OLD    MAN    CUEEY 


"Any  bet  from  you  would  scare  me,  profes- 
sor. Any  bet  at  all.  Try  the  next  store." 

Old  Man  Curry  worked  his  way  around  the 
circle,  Elisha's  price  dropping  before  his  ad- 
vance. His  very  appearance  in  the  ring  had 
been  enough  to  encourage  play  on  the  horse, 
and  the  large  roll  of  bills  which  he  carried  so 
conspicuously  added  a  powerful  impetus  to  the 
rush  on  the  favourite. 

"Curry's  betting  a  million!" 

"Elisha's  a  cinch!" 

"The  old  coot's  got  'em  scared!" 

Elisha  dropped  to  even  money,  then  went  to 
odds  on.  At  4  to  5  and  even  at  3  to  5  the  crowd 
played  him,  and  sheet  and  ticket  writers  were 
kept  busy  recording  bets  on  the  Curry  horse. 

Somewhere  in  the  maelstrom  Old  Man  Curry 
encountered  the  Bald-faced  Kid  plying  his  vo- 
cation. He  was  earnestly  endeavouring  to  per- 
suade a  whiskered  rustic  to  bet  more  money 
than  he  owned  on  Cornflower  at  3  to  1.  Though 
very  busy,  the  young  man  was  abreast  of  the 
situation  and  fully  informed  of  events,  as  in- 
deed he  usually  was.  Retaining  his  interest 
in  the  rustic  by  the  simple  expedient  of  thrust- 
ing a  forefinger  through  his  buttonhole,  the 
Bad  leaned  toward  the  old  man. 

1 '  See  what  your  little  nigger  did,  riding  that 
horse  out  yesterday  morning?    You  might  have 
got  2  or  3  to  1  on  him  if  Mose  hadn't  tipped 
him  off  to  every  clocker  at  the  track ! ' ' 
[138] 


SANGUINABY   JEREMIAH 


Old  Man  Curry  digested  this  remark  in  si- 
lence. 

"I  hear  that  Engle  is  sending  the  mare  for  a 
killing/'  whispered  the  Kid.  "Know  anything 
about  it?" 

"Everything  is  bein'  sent  for  a  killing  to- 
day," said  Old  Man  Curry.  "Well,  she'll  have 
'Lisha  to  beat,  I  reckon.  And  all  he's  runnin* 
for  is  the  purse,  Frank,  like  you  said.  I  did  my 
best  to  bet  'em  until  the  price  got  too  plumb 
ridiculous,  but  the  children  of  Israel  wouldn't 
take  my  money." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  glanced  at  the  roll  of 
bills  which  the  old  man  still  held  in  his  hand. 

1 '  Well,  no  wonder ! "  he  snorted.  * l  Don 't  you 
know  that  ain't  any  way  to  do?  You  come  in 
here  and  wave  a  chunk  like  that  under  their 
noses,  and — by  golly,  you  ought  to  have  your 
head  examined!" 

"I  reckon  you're  right,"  said  the  old  man 
apologetically.  "All  I  ask  is  please  don't  have 
me  yanked  up  before  the  Lunacy  Board  till  af- 
ter the  last  race,  because " 

"Aw,  rats!  Beat  it  now  till  I  land  this 
sucker!" 

"Frank,"  whispered  the  old  man,  "tell  him 
to  save  a  couple  of  dollars  to  bet  on  Jeremiah!" 

It  was  a  great  race.  Cornflower,  lightly 
weighted,  able  to  set  a  pace  or  hold  one,  did 
not  show  in  front  until  the  homestretch  was 
reached.  Then  the  mare  suddenly  shot  out  of 
the  ruck  and  flashed  into  the  lead.  But  she  soon 
[139] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


had  company.  Honest  old  Elisha  had  been 
plugging  along  in  the  dust  for  the  first  half 
mile,  but  at  that  point  he  began  to  run,  and  the 
Curry  colours  moved  up  with  great  celerity. 
Merritt,  glancing  over  his  shoulders,  shook  out 
the  last  wrap  on  the  mare  just  as  Elisha  thun- 
dered into  second  place.  Gathering  speed  with 
every  awkward  bound,  the  big  bay  horse  slowly 
closed  the  gap.  At  the  paddock  there  was  no 
longer  daylight  between  them,  and  Old  Man 
Curry  stopped  combing  his  beard.  He  knew 
what  that  meant.  So  did  Jockey  Merritt,  ply- 
ing whip  and  spur.  So  did  Al  Engle  and  those 
who  had  been  given  the  quiet  tip  to  play  Corn- 
flower for  a  killing.  So  did  the  Bald-faced  Kid, 
edging  away  from  the  rustic  who,  with  a  Corn- 
flower ticket  clutched  in  his  sweating  palm, 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  swallow  the  thyroid  car- 
tilage of  his  larynx.  So  did  Jockey  Moseby 
Jones,  driving  straight  into  the  hurricane  of 
cheers  which  beat  down  from  the  packed  grand 
stand. 

"Elisha!     Elisha!   Come  on,  you  Elisha!" 

Now  the  gaunt  bay  head  was  at  the  mare's 
flank,  now  at  the  saddle  girth,  now  it  blotted 
out  the  shoulder,  now  they  were  neck  and  neck ; 
one  more  terrific  bound,  an  ear-splitting  yell 
from  the  grand  stand,  and  Elisha 's  number 
went  slowly  to  the  top  of  the  pole. 

The  judges  were  examining  the  opening  bet- 
ting on  the  last  race  of  the  meeting. 

"Ah,  we  have  Old  Man  Curry  with  us 
[140] 


SANGUINARY   JEREMIAH 


again !"  said  the  presiding  judge.  "  Jeremiah. 
If  the  meeting  had  another  two  weeks  to  run 
I'd  ask  him  not  to  start  that  horse  again.  I'm 
told  he  hied  at  his  workout  this  morning.  By 
the  way,  the  old  man  acted  sort  of  grouchy 
after  the  Elisha  race.  Did  you  notice  it?" 

"Yes,  and  I  know  why,"  said  the  associate 
judge.  "He  tried  to  bet  a  barrel  of  money  and 
the  bookmakers  laughed  at  him.  As  a  general 
thing  he  bets  a  few  dollars  in  each  book;  this 
time  he  went  at  'em  too  strong.  The  bookies 
are  a  little  leary  of  that  innocent  old  boy." 

"Call  him  innocent  if  you  want  to.  He's 
either  the  shrewdest  horseman  on  this  circuit — 
or  the  luckiest,  and  I  be  damned  if  I  can  tell 
which!  Hm-m-m.  Jeremiah,  20  to  1.  If  he 
bled  this  morning,  he  ought  to  be  a  thousand!" 

So,  also,  thought  the  employer  of  Shine  Mo- 
Manus,  none  other  than  the  fat  gentleman  with 
the  purple  jowls,  otherwise  Izzy  Marx,  known 
to  his  friends  as  "Easy  Marks."  McManus 
was  a  not  unimportant  cog  in  the  secret-service 
department  maintained  by  the  bookmaker. 

1 1  Listen,  Mac ! ' '  wheezed  Marx.  *  '  I  want  you 
to  tail  Old  Man  Curry  from  now  until  the  bar- 
rier goes  up,  understand?  Yes,  yes,  you  told 
me  the  horse  bled  this  morning,  but  that  old  fox 
has  got  the  miracle  habit;  I'd  hate  to  give  him 
too  long  a  price  on  a  dead  horse,  understand, 
Mac?  If  Curry  is  going  to  bet  a  plugged  nickel 
on  this  here  Jeremiah,  I'll  hold  him  out  and  not 
take  a  cent  on  him.  Stick  around  close  and 
[141] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


shoot  me  back  word  by  Abie.  The  rest  of  these 
fellows  have  got  20  to  1  on  him;  he's  15  to  1 
in  this  book  until  I  hear  from  you.  Hurry, 
now!" 

There  were  ten  horses  entered  in  the  final 
race  of  the  meeting,  and  nine  of  them  were 
strongly  touted  as  "good  things."  The  tenth 
was  Jeremiah  and  the  most  reckless  hustler  at 
the  track  refused  to  consider  the  black  horse 
as  a  contender  for  anything  but  sanguinary 
honours. 

"Him!  Nix!  Didn't  you  hear  about  him? 
Why,  he  bled  this  morning  in  his  workout !  No 
chance!" 

Of  course  there  were  those  who  did  not  be- 
lieve this,  so  they  asked  Jeremiah's  owner  and 
Old  Man  Curry  stamped  up  and  down  the  pad- 
dock stall  and  complained  querulously.  They 
asked  him  if  Jeremiah  had  a  chance  and  he 
replied  that  Elisha  was  a  good  hoss,  a  crackin' 
good  hoss,  but  they  wouldn't  let  him  bet  his 
money.  They  asked  him  if  Jeremiah  was  likely 
to  bleed  and  he  told  them  that  a  bookmaker 
who  wouldn't  take  a  bet  when  it  was  shoved  un- 
der his  nose  ought  to  be  run  off  the  track.  They 
asked  him  what  the  other  owners  were  doing 
and  were  informed  that  he  had  a  tarnation  good 
mind  to  make  a  holler  to  the  judges.  Word  of 
this  condition  of  affairs  soon  reached  Mr.  Marx. 

"The  old  nut  is  ravin'  all  over  the  place 
about  how  he  couldn't  get  a  bet  down  on  Elisha. 
Says  if  he  wasn't  allowed  to  bet  on  the  best 
[142] 


SANGUINARY    JEREMIAH 


horse  in  his  barn  he  certainly  ain't  goin'  to  bet 
on  the  worst  one.  Oh,  yes,  and  he's  talkin' 
about  makin'  a  holler  to  the  judges!" 

"Fat  chance !"  chuckled  Marx,  and  Jeremiah 
went  to  25  to  1. 

Clear  and  high  above  the  hum  of  the  betting 
ring  rose  the  notes  of  a  bugle.  The  last  field 
of  the  season  was  being  called  to  the  track  and 
instead  of  the  usual  staccato  summons  the 
bugler  blew  "Taps." 

"There  she  goes,  boys!"  bellowed  the  book- 
makers. "That's  good-by  for  a  whole  year, 
you  know!  Bet  'em  fast!  They're  on  the  way 
to  the  post !  Only  a  few  minutes  more !" 

The  final  attack  closed  in  around  the  stands. 
Men  who  had  solemnly  promised  themselves 
not  to  make  another  bet  caught  the  fever  and 
hurled  themselves  into  the  jam,  bent  on  ex- 
changing coin  of  the  realm  for  pasteboard  tick- 
ets and  hope  of  sudden  prosperity.  It  was  the 
last  race  of  the  season,  wasn't  it,  and  good-bye 
to  the  bangtails  for  another  year ! 

During  this  mad  attack  Abie  squirmed 
through  the  mob  and  plucked  at  Marx's  sleeve. 
It  was  his  third  report. 

"The  old  bird  is  settin'  out  there  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  stall  all  by  himself,  chewin'  a  straw. 
Says  he's  so  disgusted  he  don't  care  if  he  sees 
the  race  or  not.  I  started  to  kid  him  about 
bein'  such  a  crab  and,  honest,  I  was  afraid  he'd 
bite  me!" 

[143] 


OLD   MAN    CTJEKY 


Mr.  Marx  grinned  and  chalked  up  40  to  1  on 
Jeremiah.  "Now  let  him  bleed!"  said  he. 

The  distance  of  the  final  event  was  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  and  the  crowd  in  the  betting 
ring  continued  to  swarm  about  the  stands  until 
the  clang  of  the  gong  warned  them  that  the  race 
was  on.  Then  there  was  a  wild  rush  for  the 
lawn;  even  the  fat  Mr.  Marx  climbed  down 
from  his  perch  and  waddled  out  into  the  sun- 
shine, blinking  as  he  turned  his  small  eyes 
toward  the  back  stretch. 

Now  little  Mose  had  been  watching  the  starter 
carefully  and  had  thrown  his  mount  at  the  bar- 
rier just  as  it  rose  in  the  air,  but  there  were 
other  jockeys  in  the  race  who  had  done  the  same 
thing,  and  Jeremiah's  was  not  the  only  early 
speed  that  sizzled  down  to  the  half-mile  pole. 
At  least  four  of  the  "good  things"  were  away 
to  a  running  start — Fireball,  Sky  Pilot,  Harry 
Boot,  and  Eesolution.  Jeremiah  trailed  the 
quartet,  content  to  kick  clods  at  the  second  di- 
vision. On  the  upper  turn  Fireball  and  Harry 
Boot  founcl  the  pace  too  warm  for  them  and 
dropped  back.  Jeremiah  found  himself  in  third 
place,  coasting  along  easily  under  a  strong  pull. 
The  presiding  judge  turned  his  binoculars  up- 
on the  black  horse  and  favoured  him  with  a 
searching  scrutiny. 

"Ah,  hah!"  said  he,  wagging  his  head.    "I 

thought  as  much.    Jeremiah  may  have  bled  this 

morning,  but  he  ain't  bleeding  now  and  that 

little  nigger  is  almost  breaking  his  jaw  to  keep 

[144] 


SANGUINARY   JEREMIAH 


him  from  running  over  the  two  in  front!  .  .  . 
Old  Man  Curry  again !  Oh,  but  he 's  a  cute  ras- 
cal!" 

"I'd  rather  see  him  get  away  with  it  than 
some  of  these  other  owners,  at  that,"  said  the 
associate  judge. 

"So  would  I  ...  I  kind  of  like  the  old  coot. 
.  .  .  Now  what  on  earth  do  you  suppose  he's 
done  to  that  horse  since  this  morning?" 

A  few  thousand  spectators  were  asking  vari- 
ations of  the  same  question,  but  one  spectator 
asked  no  questions  at  all.  The  Bald-faced  Kid 
was  reduced  by  stuttering  degrees  to  dumb 
amazement.  He  had  ignored  Old  Man  Curry's 
kindly  suggestion  and  had  persuaded  all  and 
sundry  to  plunge  heavily  on  Fireball. 

It  really  was  not  much  of  a  contest.  Sky 
Pilot,  on  the  rail,  swung  wide  turning  into  the 
stretch  and  carried  Eesolution  with  him.  Like 
a  flash  Little  Mose  shot  the  black  horse  through 
the  opening  and  straightened  away  for  the  wire, 
an  open  length  in  the  lead. 

"Come  git  him,  jocks!"  shrilled  Mose. 
"Come  git  oP  Jeremiah  to-day!" 

The  most  that  can  be  said  for  the  other  jock- 
eys is  that  they  tried,  but  Little  Mose  hugged 
the  rail  and  Jeremiah  came  booming  down  the 
home  stretch  alone,  fighting  for  his  head  and 
hoping  for  some  real  competition  which  never 
quite  arrived.  The  black  horse  won  by  three 
open  lengths,  won  with  wraps  still  on  his  jock- 
[145] 


OLD    MAN    CTJKKY 


ey's  wrists,  and,  as  the  form  chart  stated,  "did 
not  bleed  and  was  never  fully  extended. ' ' 

"Well,  anyhow,"  said  Mr.  Marx,  as  he 
wheezed  back  to  his  place  of  business,  "Curry 
won't  get  anything  but  the  purse  again  and 
that'll  help  some.  If  he  brought  a  dead  horse 
around  here  in  a  wagon,  the  best  he'd  get  from 
me  would  be  1  to  2!" 

The  judges,  of  course,  were  curious.  They 
invited  Old  Man  Curry  into  the  stand  to  ask 
him  if  he  had  bet  on  Jeremiah. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  removing  his  battered 
slouch  hat,  ' '  I  give  you  my  word,  I  never  went 
near  that  betting  ring  but  once  to-day,  and  that 
was  to  bet  on  a  real  hoss.  'Elisha!'  I  says, 
and  I  shoved  it  at  'em.  Judges,  they  laughed 
at  me.  They  wouldn't  take  a  cent.  Not  a 
cent!  And  I  was  so  mad " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  presiding  judge,  sooth- 
ingly, "but  how  do  you  account  for  Jeremiah 
bleeding  in  his  work  this  morning  and  running 
such  a  good  race  this  afternoon?" 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  "I  don't 
account  for  it.  Solomon  was  the  smartest  man 
that  ever  lived,  I  reckon,  and  there  was  a  lot 
of  things  he  never  figured  out.  I  reckon  now, 
if  he'd  been  in  this  business " 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Curry,"  said  the  presiding 
judge,  "and  good  luck!" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  might  see  miracles  with 
his  eyes,  but  there  was  that  about  him  which 
demanded  explanation.  Chastened  in  spirit,  ut- 
[146] 


SANGUINARY   JEREMIAH 


terly  humble  and  cast  down,  he  called  upon  Old 
Man  Curry.  He  found  him  seated  in  his  tackle- 
room,  reading  the  Old  Testament  by  the  light 
of  a  lantern. 

"Come  in,  Frank.  .  .  .  Got  the  Lunacy 
Board  with  you?" 

"Don't  rub  it  in.  And  if  you  can  spare  the 
time,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  you've  been 
up  to  with  Jeremiah." 

"Oh,  Jeremiah.  Well,  now,  he's  a  better 
hoss  than  some  folks  think.  There  wasn't  any- 
thing wrong  with  him  but  just  them  little  bleed- 
in'  spells.  When  I  got  him  cured  of  those " 

"Cured!  Was  he  cured  this  morning? 
Didn't  I  see  him  bleed  all  over  the  place?" 

"You  saw  some  blood,  yes  .  .  .  Frank,  I 
wish't  you  wouldn't  interrupt  me  when  I'm 
talkin'  .  .  .  Well,  about  three  weeks  ago  I  met 
up  with  a  man  that  claimed  he  had  a  remedy 
to  cure  bleeders.  I  let  him  try  his  hand  on 
Jeremiah  and  he  done  a  good  job.  Since  then 
we've  been  workin'  the  black  rascal  at  two  in 
the  mornin'  when  all  you  wise  folks  was  in 
bed.  ...  Of  course,  I  didn't  want  anybody  to 
know  it  was  Jeremiah  I  was  figurin'  on,  so  I 
gave  'em  something  else  to  think  about.  I 
started  'Lisha  the  same  day  and  I  tried  to  get 
as  many  folks  interested  in  him  as  I  could.  I 
had  the  little  nigger  send  him  a  mile  so  fast 
that  a  wayfarin'  man  and  a  fool  couldn't  help 
but  see  he  was  ready.  And  then  I  kind  of  dis- 
tracted 'em  some  more  by  goin'  into  the  bettin' 
[147] 


OLD   MAN   CUKBY 


ring  with  a  big  mess  of  one  dollar  bills  with  a 
fifty  on  the  outside.  I  held  the  money  up  where 
everybody  could  see  it  and  I  carried  on  scan- 
dalous when  the  bookmakers  wouldn't  take  it, 
I'd  have  carried  on  a  lot  worse  if  one  of  them 
children  of  Israel  had  called  my  bluff.  And 
then  I  got  so  mad  because  they  wouldn't  let  me 
bet  on  'Lisha  that  they  thought  I'd  lost  interest 
in  Jeremiah.  ...  I've  heard  that  Jeremiah 
wasn't  played.  He  was  played  all  over  the 
ring,  two  dollars  at  a  time  and  it  was  my  money 
that  played  him.  But  of  course  those  book- 
makers knew  I  was  sulkin'  out  in  the  paddock 
and  took  the  sucker  money.  .  .  .  Anything  else 
you  want  to  know  1 ' ' 

"Yes!"  The  Bald-faced  Kid  had  reached 
the  bursting  point.  "Was  Jeremiah  bleeding 
this  morning  or  not?" 

Old  Man  Curry  stroked  his  beard  thought- 
fully. 

"Well,  it  was  real  blood,  if  that's  what  you 
want  to  know,"  said  he.  "It  took  me  some 
time  to  study  that  out.  Last  week  Mose  came 
around  here,  squawkin'  on  one  of  them  little 
toy  balloons.  I  took  it  away  from  him  for  fear 
it  would  make  the  hosses  nervous — and  then  I 
got  to  studying  how  it  was  made.  Last  night 
I  done  some  shopping.  I  bought  a  nice,  fat  hen 
and  a  glass  pumping  arrangement  from  a  drug 
store.  .  .  .  The  hen,  she  passed  away  this 
mornin'  about  daybreak.  She  bled  quite  a  lot, 
but  I  got  most  of  it  in  that  rubber  bag,  and 
[148] 


SASTGUINAKY   JEREMIAH 


when  Jeremiah  was  ready  for  his  gallop " 

"You  put  it  in  his  mouth?" 

Old  Man  Curry  nodded. 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  wailed  the 
Bald-faced  Kid.  "I  could  have  cleaned  up!" 

"I  started  in  to  tell  you,  son,  and  you  said  I 
ought  to  have  my  head  examined.  And  then, 
I  kind  of  like  to  surprise  folks,  Frank.  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  have  the  nerve  to  bet  on  a  bleeder 
like  Jeremiah,  so  I  had  some  bettin'  done  for 
you."  Old  Man  Gurry  fumbled  in  his  pocket 
and  produced  a  roll  of  bills.  "Solomon  says 
there's  a  time  to  get,  and  I  don't  know  of  any 
better  time  than  get-away  day!" 


[149] 


ELIPHAZ,  LATE  FAIRFAX 


WHEN  Old  Man  Curry's  racing  string 
arrived  at  the  second  stop  on  the 
Jungle  Circuit  the  Bald-faced  Kid 
met  the  horse  car  in  the  railroad 
yards  and  watched  the  thoroughbreds  come 
down  the  chute  into  the  corral.  One  by  one  he 
checked  them  off:  Elisha,  the  pride  of  the 
stable;  Elijah,  Isaiah,  Ezekiel,  Esther,  Nehe- 
miah,  Euth,  and  Jeremiah.  The  aged  owner, 
straw  in  mouth  and  hands  clasped  behind  him, 
watched  the  unloading  process  narrowly  giv- 
ing an  order  now  and  then  and  sparing  no  more 
than  a  nod  for  his  young  friend.  This  sort  of 
welcome  did  not  discourage  the  Kid.  He  was 
accustomed  to  the  old  man's  spells  of  silence, 
as  well  as  his  garrulous  interludes. 

"They  look  all  right,  old-timer, "  said  the 
Kid,  making  conversation  for  its  own  sake. 
"Yes,  sir,  they  look  good.  The  trip  didn't 
bother  'em  much.  Elisha,  now,  I'd  say  he  was 
ready  to  step  out  and  bust  a  track  record  as 
soon  as  he  gets  the  cinders  out  of  his  ears. 

Shouldn't  wonder  if  he " 

[150] 


ELIPHAZ,    LATE    FAIKFAX 


The  aimless  chatter  died  away  into  amazed 
silence.  Shanghai,  the  hostler,  appeared  at  the 
head  of  the  chute  leading  a  large,  coal-black 
horse. 

"Well,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  muttered  the 
Kid,  moving  nearer  the  fence,  his  eyes  glued 
on  the  black  stranger.  "Where  did  you  pick  up 
that  fellow?  .  .  .  One  white  forefoot.  H-m-m! 
.  .  .  Say,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  this  is 
Fairfax?" 

Old  Man  Curry  nodded. 

"Fairfax!"  ejaculated  the  Bald-faced  Kid 
disgustedly.  "Well,  how  in  the  name  of  all 
that  is  good,  great,  and  wise  did  you  get  that 
crowbait  wished  on  you?" 

Old  Man  Curry  threw  away  his  straw  and 
reached  for  his  packet  of  fine  cut,  a  sure  sign 
that  he  was  about  to  unburden  himself. 

"He  wa'n't  wished  on  me,  Frank.  Jimmy 
Miles  was  stuck  with  a  feed  bill,  and  at  the  last 
minute,  just  as  I  was  loadin'  my  hosses, 
he " 

"He  stuck  you  with  that/'  finished  the  Kid, 
pointing  at  the  black  horse. 

"Well,  I  dunno's  I'd  say  stuck/'  remarked 
Old  Man  Curry,  looking  critically  at  Fairfax. 
"Jimmy  sold  him  to  me  for  next  to  nothing." 

"And  you  can  bet  he  didn't  misrepresent  the 
goods  any!"  said  the  Kid.  "That's  exactly 
what  Fairfax  is — next  to  nothing.  He 's  so  near 
nothing  that  a  lot  of  folks  can't  tell  the  dif- 
ference. If  you  said  to  me:  'This  is  a  black 
[151] 


OLD   MAN    CUKEY 


horse  named  Fairfax  and  that  over  there  is 
nothing/  I  couldn't  tell  which  was  which.  Old- 
timer,  you're  in  bad." 

"Mebbe  I  am."  Old  Man  Curry's  tone  was 
apologetic  and  conciliating  in  the  extreme. 
"Mebbe  I  am.  You  ought  to  know  'bout  bosses, 
Frank.  You  most  gener'ly  do." 

"Cut  out  the  sarcasm,  because  here's  one  I 
do  know.  .  .  .  You  made  a  sucker  of  me  on 
Jeremiah,  but  don't  rub  it  in.  This  Fairfax 
looks  like  a  stake  horse  and  on  his  breeding  he 
ought  to  run  like  one,  but  he  simply  can't  un- 
track  himself  in  any  kind  of  going.  If  hay  was 
two  bits  a  ton  and  this  black  fellow  had  an  ap- 
petite like  a  humming  bird,  he  wouldn't  be 
worth  feeding.  I'm  telling  you!" 

"I  hear  you,  Frank."  Old  Man  Curry  pre- 
tended to  reflect  deeply,  but  there  was  a  shifting 
light  in  his  eye.  "Ah,  hah!  Your  advice,  then, 
would  be  to  take  him  out  and  shoot  him  to  save 
expense  1 ' ' 

"Oh,  quit  your  kidding,  old-timer.  You've 
bought  a  race  horse;  now  go  ahead  and  see 
what  you  can  do  with  him." 

"Well,  ain't  that  queer!"  ejaculated  the  old 
man.  "Ain't  it?  Great  minds  run  in  the  same 
channels,  for  a  fact.  You  know,  that's  exackly 
what  I  was  figgerin'  to  do !  I  ain't  had  time  to 
look  this  black  hoss  over  yet — I  bought  him  just 
before  we  pulled  out  of  the  railroad  yards — 
but  I've  been  expectin'  to  see  what  I  could  do 
with  him.  Whenever  I  get  hold  of  a  hoss  that 
[152] 


ELIPHAZ,   LATE   FAIRFAX 


ought  to  run — a  hoss  that  looks  as  if  he  could 
run,  but  ain't  doin'  it — the  next  thing  I  want 
to  find  out  is  why.  If  I  thought  there  was  a 
cold  strain  in  Fairfax,  I  wouldn't  waste  a  min- 
ute  on  him,  but  I  know  he 's  bred  right.  His 
daddy  was  sure  a  go-getter  from  'way  up  the 
creek  and  his  mother  was  a  nice,  honest  little 
mare  and  game  as  a  badger.  .  .  .  And,  speakin' 
about  breeding,  Frank,  I  don't  know's  you  ever 
thought  of  it,  but  when  it  comes  to  ancestors,  a 
real  thoroughbred  hoss  has  got  something  on 
a  human  being.  Even  Fairfax  over  there  had 
his  ancestors  picked  out  for  him  by  folks  who 
knew  their  business  and  was  after  results — go 
back  with  him  as  far  as  you  like  and  that'll  be 
true.  A  hoss  or  a  mare  without  class  can't 
ring  in  on  a  family  tree,  whereas  humans  ain't 
noways  near  that  partickler.  Son,  good  looks 
has  made  grandfathers  out  of  lots  of  men  that 
by  rights  should  have  been  locked  up  instead 
of  married.  Did  you  ever  think  of  that?" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  laughed. 

"I  think  that  you're  putting  up  a  whale  of 
an  argument  fa  excuse  yourself  for  shipping 
that  black  hay  burner  around  the  country. 
You'd  save  breath  by  admitting  that  Miles 
slipped  one  over  on  you." 

"Mebbe  he  did  and  mebbe  he  didn't.  Jimmy 
Miles  don't  know  all  there  is  to  be  knowed  about 
hosses — coming  right  down  to  it,  I'd  say  he's 
pretty  near  ignorant.  Like  as  not  he's  over- 
looked something  about  this  Fairfax.  I  tell 
[153] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


you,  on  Ms  "breeding,  the  hoss  ought  to  run." 

"And  Al  Engle  ought  to  be  in  jail,  but  he 
ain't.  He's  here,  big  as  life." 

"And  aspreading  himself  like  a  green  bay 
tree,  I  reckon, ' '  said  the  old  man.  "  I  Ve  lopped 
a  few  branches  off  that  rascal  in  my  time,  and 
if  I  have  any  luck  I'll  lop  off  a  few  more  at  this 
meeting.  .  .  .  Ole  Maje  Pettigrew  is  still  the 
presiding  judge  here,  ain't  he?" 

"Sure.    They  can't  get  rid  of  him." 

"A  lot  of  crooks  would  like  to."  There  was 
a  trace  of  grimness  in  the  old  man's  tone. 
"Pettigrew  won't  stand  for  no  monkey  busi- 
ness, pullin'  a  hoss's  head  off  on  Monday  and 
cuttin'  him  loose  on  Tuesday.  They've  got  to 
be  middlin'  consistent  p 'formers  to  get  by  the 
major,  and  if  Al  Engle  goes  runnin'  'em  in  and 
out  he'll  get  his  jacket  dusted  good;  you  mark 
what  I  say!" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  shook  his  head. 

"That's  your  hope  talking  now,"  said  he, 
"and  not  your  common  sense.  These  race- 
track judges  have  been  after  The  Sharpshooter 
a  long  time,  but  I  notice  he's  still  wearing  an 
owner's  badge  and  coming  in  at  the  free  gate. 
He's  a  crook — no  getting  away  from  it — but 
he's  got  high-up  friends."  j 

"Let  him  have  'em!"  snapped  Old  Man 
Curry.  "You  know  what  Solomon  says? 
6 Though  hand  join  in  hand,  the  wicked  shall  not 
be  unpunished.'  Let  Engle  have  his  pull;  it 
won't  buy  him  a  nickel's  worth  with  ole  Maje 
[154] 


ELIPHAZ,   LATE   FAIKFAX 


Pettigrew.  Wlien  he  starts  dealin'  ont  jus- 
tice, the  cards  come  off:  the  top  of  the  deck  and 
they  lay  as  they  fall.  The  major  will  get  him, 
I  tell  you !" 

"I  won't  go  into  deep  mourning  if  he  does," 
said  the  Kid.  "Al  Engle  is  no  friend  of  mine, 
old-timer.  If  he  was  overboard  in  fifty  feet 
of  water  and  couldn't  swim  a  lick,  I'd  toss  him 
a  bar  of  lead — that's  how  much  I  think  of  him. 
He  did  me  a  mean  trick  once  and  I  haven't  got 
over  it  yet.  He — say!  Don't  you  feed  that 
black  horse,  or  what?" 

"Huh?  Feed  him?  Of  course  we  feed  him ! 
Why?" 

"You  don't  feed  him  enough  or  he  wouldn't 
be  trying  to  eat  up  the  top  rail  of  the  fence. 
Take  a  look,  will  you?" 

Sure  enough,  Fairfax  was  gnawing  at  the 
pine  board ;  the  grating  rasp  of  his  teeth  became 
audible  in  the  silence.  After  a  time  the  horse 
dropped  his  head  and  gulped  heavily. 

"Suffering  mackerel!"  ejaculated  the  Kid. 
"He  ain't  really  swallowing  those  splinters, 
is  he?" 

j  The  time  came  when  the  Bald-faced  Kid  re- 
called that  Old  Man  Curry's  next  remark  was 
not  a  direct  reply  to  his  question.  After  a  care- 
ful survey  of  the  black  horse  the  patriarch  of 
the  Jungle  Circuit  spoke. 

"What  Jimmy  Miles  don't  know  about  hosses 
would  fill  a  big  book!" 

Ten  days  later  Fairfax,  running  in  Old  Man 
[155] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


Curry's  colours  and  under  the  name  of  Eliphaz, 
won  a  cheap  selling  race  from  very  bad  horses 
— won  it  in  a  canter  after  leading  all  the  way. 
The  Bald-faced  Kid,  a  student  to  whom  past 
performance  was  a  sacred  thing,  was  shocked 
at  this  amazing  reversal  of  form  and  sought 
Old  Man  Curry — and  information. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  do  it!"  said  the 
youth.  "All  I  can  say  is  that  you're  a  marvel 
— a  wizard.  This  Fairfax — " 

*  *  Eliphaz,  son, ' '  said  the  old  man.  '  '  Eliphaz. 
I  got  his  name  changed." 

"And  his  heart  too,"  said  the  Kid.  "And 
maybe  you  got  him  a  new  set  of  legs,  or  lungs, 
or  something?  Well,  Eliphaz,  then — do  you 
know  how  fast  that  bird  stepped  the  first  half 
mile?" 

Old  Man  Curry  nodded. 

'  *  I  reckon  I  do, ' '  said  he  simply.  ' '  I  bet  quite 
a  chunk  on  him." 

"But  of  course  you  wouldn't  open  up  and 
tell  a  friend!"  The  Bald-faced  Kid  was  be- 
ginning to  show  signs  of  exasperation.  "You're 
the  fellow  that  invented  secrets,  ain't  you,  old- 
timer?  You're  by  a  clam  out  of  an  oyster,  you 
are!  Never  mind!  Don't  say  it!  I  can  tell 
by  the  look  in  your  eye  that  Solomon  thought 
the  clam  was  the  king  of  beasts.  "What  I  want 
to  know  is  this :  how  did  that  black  brute  come 
to  change  his  heart  at  the  same  time  with  his 
name  ? ' ' 

"I  dunno's  there  was  ever  anything  wrong 
[156] 


ELIPHAZ,   LATE   FAIRFAX 


with  his  heart/'  said  Old  Man  Curry.  "Lots 
of  folks  make  that  mistake  and  think  a  man's 
heart  is  bad  when  it 's  only  his  habits  that  need 
reformin'.  Now  Eliphaz,  on  his  breeding,  he 
ought  to " 

"Yes,  yes!  I  know  all  about  his  breeding — 
by  Stormeloud  out  of  Frippery — but  he  never 
ran  to  his  breeding  before.  The  way  he  ran  for 
Jimmy  Miles  you'd  have  thought  he  was  by  a 
steam  roller  out  of  a  wheelbarrow.  What  in  Sam 
Hill  have  you  been  doing  to  him — sprinkling 
powders  on  his  tongue?" 

The  old  man's  eyes  flashed  wrathfully. 

"You  know  better 'n  that,  Frank.  All  the 
help  the  black  hoss  had  was  what  little  bit  Mose 
give  him  after  the  barrier  went  up.  Ketch  me 
handing  the  drug  habit  to  a  dumb  critter!  I 
guess  not!" 

"Keep  your  shirt  on,"  was  the  soothing  reply. 
"I'm  only  telling  you  what  they  say.  They 
think  Jimmy  Miles  didn't  know  the  right  pre- 
scription." 

"A  lot  of  things  he  don't  know  besides 
p'scriptions!"  retorted  Old  Man  Curry,  still 
nettled.  '  *  Hosses,  for  one ! ' ' 

"But  you're  getting  away  from  the  subject, 
old-timer.  Ain't  you  going  to  tell  me  what 
you've  done  to  this  horse  to  make  him  win?" 

"Some  day,  Frank — some  day."  The  aged 
horseman  combed  his  white  beard  with  his  fin- 
gers and  regarded  his  impatient  young  friend 
with  benign  tolerance.  '  '  You — got  many  clients, 
[157] 


OLD    MAN    CUKKY 


so  far?"  Thus  tactfully  did  Old  Man  Curry 
recognise  the  fact  that  the  Bald-faced  Kid  was 
what  another  man  might  have  called  a  tout. 

1 '  A  few,  yes, ' '  said  the  Kid.    < i  Pikers. ' ' 

"Well,  sort  of  whisper  to  'em  that  Eliphaz '11 
be  a  good  bet  the  next  time  out." 

"If  it's  a  dog  race,  there  won't  be  any  price 
on  him,"  was  the  sulky  response. 

"It  won't  be  a  dog  race,"  said  Old  Man 
Curry.  ' '  It  '11  be  a  hoss  race. ' ' 

A  few  days  afterward  the  Bald-faced  Kid 
picked  up  the  overnight  entry  slip  and  there 
found  something  which  caused  him  to  emit  a 
long,  low  whistle. 

"Well,  the  poor  old  nut!"  murmured  the 
Kid.  i  i  Just  because  he  thinks  well  of  the  black 
horse,  he's  got  no  license  to  slip  him  in  against 
the  real  ones.  .  .  .  Too  much  class  here  for 
Eliphaz.  He  may  be  able  to  beat  dogs  and  non- 
winners,  but  Topaz  and  Miss  Louise  will  run 
the  eyeballs  out  of  him.  Let's  see — Topaz  won 

his  last  start "  and  the  Bald-faced  Kid  fell 

to  thumbing  his  form  charts. 

Topaz  and  Miss  Louise  did  not  run  the  eye- 
balls out  of  Eliphaz;  the  supposed  contenders 
never  got  near  enough  to  the  black  horse  to 
give  him  a  race.  Eliphaz  burst  out  in  front 
when  the  barrier  rose  and  stayed  there,  trium- 
phantly kicking  clods  in  the  faces  of  his  pur- 
suers. To  quote  from  the  form  chart  notes: 
"Eliphaz  much  too  good;  surprised  the  talent 
by  winning  as  he  pleased." 
[158] 


ELIPHAZ,   LATE  FAIKFAX 


He  certainly  surprised  the  Bald-faced  Kid, 
and  grieved  him  too,  for  that  youth  had  per- 
suaded a  most  promising  client  to  bet  his  last 
dollar  on  Topaz.  Topaz  was  second,  which  was 
some  consolation,  but  the  horse  without  any  li- 
cense to  start  in  such  company  passed  under 
the  wire  with  three  lengths  to  spare,  his  mouth 
wide  open  because  of  a  strong  pull.  That  night 
Old  Man  Curry  poured  vinegar  into  the  wound. 

6 ' Well,  son,"  said  he,  "I  hope  and  trust  you 
remembered  what  I  said  and  cashed  in  on  the 
black  hoss  to-day.  They  was  offerin'  10  to  1 
on  him  in  the  openin'  betting.  He's  an  im- 
proved hoss,  ain't  he  I" 

"He's  another  horse!"  grunted  the  Kid. 
"Mose  had  to  choke  him  all  the  way  down  the 
stretch  to  keep  him  from  breaking  a  track 
record !  What  on  earth  have  you  done  to  him  ? ' 9 

"That's  what  they'd  all  like  to  know," 
chuckled  the  old  man.  "  'A  word  spoken  in  due 
season,  how  good  it  is!'  I  spoke  one  a  few 
days  ago.  Did  you  heed  it,  Frank?" 

"How  in  hell  could  I  figure  him  to  beat  To- 
paz!" snarled  the  Kid.  "On  his  past  perform- 
ance he  ain't  even  in  the  same  class  with 
horses  like  he  beat  to-day!" 

Old  Man  Curry  smiled  and  returned  to  Sol- 
omon. 

"  'A  scorner  seeketh  wisdom  and  findeth  it 
not,  but  knowledge  is  easy  unto  him  that  un- 
derstandeth. '  "  ( 

"Yes — 'unto  him  that  understandeth ! ' 
[159]  ^ 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


That's  the  point;  I  don't  understand.  Nobody 
understands.  Here's  a  dead  horse  come  to  life 
and  he's  got  everybody  guessing.  Miracles  are 
all  right,  but  I  'm  never  going  to  bet  on  one  un- 
til I  know  how  it's  done.  Say,  old-timer,  ain't 
you  going  to  tell  me  what's  happened  to  Eli- 
phaz?" 

"No,  but  I'll  tell  you  what  Solomon  says 
'bout  a  loose  tongue,  my  son."  Old  Man  Curry 
paused,  for  he  was  addressing  the  vanishing 
coat  tails  of  a  much-disgusted  young  man.  The 
Bald-faced  Kid  took  himself  off  in  a  highly  in- 
flamed state  of  mind,  and  the  patriarch,  look- 
ing after  him,  shook  his  head  sorrowfully. 

"  'How  much  better  is  it  to  get  wisdom  than 
gold,'  "  he  quoted,  "but  Frank,  now — he  wants 
'em  both  at  the  same  time!" 

There  were  others  who  were  earnest  in  their 
search  for  information,  which  became  acute 
when  Eliphaz,  late  Fairfax,  won  his  fourth  race, 
a  brilliant  victory  over  the  best  horses  at  the 
track.  Among  the  seekers  after  knowledge 
were  Al  Engle  and  Martin  O'Connor,  horse- 
men and  turf  pirates  with  whom  Old  Man  Curry 
had  been  at  war  for  some  time.  Engle,  some- 
times called  The  Sharpshooter,  was  the  chief 
conspirator;  O'Connor  was  his  lieutenant. 
Engle,  who  was  responsible  for  the  skirmishes 
with  Curry,  had  begun  operations  with  the 
theory  that  Old  Man  Curry  was  a  harmless, 
brainless  individual,  "shot  full  of  luck,"  he 
expressed  it.  Circumstances  had  caused  him 
[160] 


ELIPHAZ,    LATE    FAIRFAX 


to  alter  his  opinion  somewhat;  he  no  longer 
pitied  the  owner  of  Eliphaz  and  Elisha ;  he  sus- 
pected him.  O'Connor  went  even  farther.  He 
respected  and  feared  everything  bearing  the 
Curry  tag,  the  latter  feeling  amounting  almost 
to  superstition. 

These  two  unworthies  discussed  the  resur- 
rection of  Fairfax,  the  place  of  the  confab  be- 
ing O'Connor's  tackle-room  and  the  time  being 
the  night  following  the  fourth  straight  victory 
of  the  Curry  colours  as  borne  by  Eliphaz. 

"If  it  ain't  hop  he's  using  on  that  horse, " 
said  O'Connor,  "I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  it 
is.  A  month  ago  Fairfax  was  a  bum;  now  he's 
pretty  near  a  stake  horse  and  getting  better 
every  time  he  starts.  Why  couldn't  we  have  a 
smart  'vet'  look  him  over  on  the  sly  before  he 
goes  to  the  post  the  next  time?  Then  we  could 
send  word  to  the  judge  that  Curry  was  stimu- 
lating the  horse  and " 

"And  create  a  lovely  precedent,"  sneered 
Engle.  "Use  your  head  a  little  more;  that's 
what  it's  for.  A  man  that  hops  his  horses  as 
often  as  you  do  can't  afford  to  start  any  in- 
vestigations along  that  line.  If  you  must  throw 
something  at  Curry,  throw  a  brick,  not  a  boom- 
erang. .  .  .  And  somehow  I  don't  believe  it's 
hop.  Fairfax  was  probably  a  good  horse  all 
the  time,  but  Jimmy  Miles  didn  't  know  it ;  and, 
as  for  training,  Jimmy  couldn't  train  a  goat  for 
a  butting  contest,  let  alone  a  thoroughbred  for 
a  race  I  Curry  is  a  wise  horseman — I'll  give 
[161] 


OLD   MAN    CUBBY 


the  old  scoundrel  that  much — and  he's  got  this 
bird  edged  up.  Take  it  from  me,  he 's  a  crack- 
ing good  selling  plater.  I'd  like  to  have  him 
in  my  barn." 

O'Connor  laughed  unpleasantly.  He  resent- 
ed Engle's  easy  and  arrogant  assumption  of 
mental  superiority,  and  was  thankful  for  a 
chance  to  remind  The  Sharpshooter  of  one 
skirmish  in  which  all  the  honours  had  gone  to 
Old  Man  Curry. 

"G'wan,  run  him  up  like  you  did  Elisha," 
said  O'Connor.  "Grab  him  out  of  a  selling 
race.  My  memory  ain  't  what  it  used  to  be,  Al, 
but  seems  to  me  you  took  one  of  Curry's  horses 
away  from  him  and  framed  him  up  for  a  kill- 
ing. Did  I  dream  it,  or  did  the  skate  run  last? 
Go  on  and  grab  another  horse  away  from  the 
old  boy!" 

"Will  you  ever  quit  beefing  about  the  money 
you  lost  on  that  race?"  snapped  Engle. 

"Will  I  ever  forget  who  got  me  into  it?" 
countered  O'Connor.  "And  if  you'll  take  a  tip 
from  me — which  you  won't  because  you  think 
you're  smarter  than  I  am — you'll  let  Old  Man 
Curry's  horses  alone.  It  ain't  in  the  cards  that 
you  or  me  can  monkey  with  those  Bible  horses 
without  getting  hurt.  Grab  this  Fairfax,  or 
whatever  they  call  him  now,  but  count  me  out. ' ' 

"No-o,"  said  The  Sharpshooter,  his  lips 
pursed  and  his  brow  wrinkled.  "I  don't  want 
to  grab  him.  I'd  rather  get  him  some  other 
way." 

[162] 


ELIPHAZ,    LATE    FAIRFAX 


'"Buy  him,  then." 

Engle  shook  his  head. 

"Curry  wouldn't  sell — not  to  me,  anyway. 
He  might  to  some  one  else.  I  saw  Jimmy  Miles 
this  afternoon,  and  he  was  crying  about  what 
a  wonderful  horse  he'd  sold  for  nothing.  I 
wonder  where  I  could  get  hold  of  Jimmy?" 

The  following  evening  the  Bald-faced  Kid 
called  upon  his  aged  friend  and  interrupted  a 
heart-to-heart  session  in  Old  Man  Curry's 
tackle-room. 

"Hello,  old-timer!  Hello,  Jimmy!  Am  I 
butting  in  here?" 

Jimmy  Miles,  a  thin,  sandy-haired  man  with 
pale-blue  eyes  and  a  retreating  chin,  answered 
for  both. 

"No,  nothing  private.  I've  been  tryin'  to 
tell  Curry  here  that  he  kind  of  took  a  mean 
advantage  of  me  when  he  bought  Fairfax  so 
cheap. ' ' 

"Eliphaz,"  corrected  the  old  man,  "and  it 
wa'n't  no  advantage  because  you  was  crazy  to 
sell." 

"I'd  been  drinkin'  or  I  wouldn't  have  been 
such  a  fool, ' '  whined  Miles.  ' '  Booze  in — brains 
out:  the  old  story.  If  I  hadn't  been  right  up 
against  it,  I  wouldn't  have  sold  the  horse  at  all 
— attached  to  him  the  way  I  was.  I'd  worked^ 
with  him  a  long  time,  gettin'  him  ready  to  win, 
and  it  was  a  mistake  to  let  him  go  just  when 
he  was  shapin'  up.  I — I'd  like  to  buy  him  back. 
Put  a  price  on  him,  old  man." 
[163] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


Miles  stooped  to  extinguish  a  burning  match 
end  which  the  Kid  had  thrown  on  the  floor,  and 
in  that  instant  the  Bald-faced  Kid  caught  Old 
Man  Curry's  eye  and  shook  his  head  ever  so 
slightly. 

"He  ain't  for  sale,"  said  the  owner  of  Eli- 
phaz. 

"Not  for  cash — and  your  own  figure?"  per- 
sisted Miles.  Again  a  wordless  message  flashed 
across  the  tackle-room.  This  time  the  Kid, 
yawning,  stretched  one  hand  high  over  his  head. 

"Two  thousand  dollars!"  said  Old  Man 
Cnrry  promptly. 

Miles  gulped  his  astonishment. 

"Why — why,  you  got  him  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty!"  he  cried. 

"He's  a  better  hoss  than  when  I  got  him," 
said  the  old  man,  "and  he's  won  four  races. 
Maybe  he  '11  win  four  more.  You  asked  for  my 
figure.  You  got  it.  Two  thousand.  Not  a  cent 
less." 

Miles  argued  and  pleaded,  but  the  old  man 
was  firm. 

"It  ain't  as  if  I  was  wantin'  to  sell,"  he  ex- 
plained. "I  never  want  to  sell — when  the  other 
man  wants  to  buy.  That's  business,  ain't  it! 
Two  thousand — take  it  or  leave  it." 

"  I  '11  see  you  later, ' '  said  Miles.  * '  You  might 
come  down  some." 

Hardly  was  he  out  of  the  room  before  Old 
Man  Curry  turned  to  his  remaining  guest. 
[164] 


ELIPHAZ,   LATE   FAIRFAX 


"Well,  Frank, "  said  he,  "you  know  some- 
thing. What  is  it!" 

"I  know  Miles  is  trying  to  buy  the  black 
horse  for  Al  Engle." 

Old  Man  Curry's  fist  thumped  upon  his  knee. 

"Engle!    How  did  you  find  that  out,  son?" 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  grinned. 

"Everybody  ain't  as  close-mouthed  as  you 
are,  old-timer.  Engle,  O'Connor,  and  Jimmy 
Miles  split  a  quart  of  wine  in  the  restaurant 
under  the  grand  stand  after  the  last  race  to- 
day and  the  waiter  hung  around  and  got  an 
earful.  O'Connor  was  against  the  deal  from 
the  jump.  He  says  nobody  can  win  any  money 
on  a  Bible  horse  without  queering  his  luck,. 
Engle  knows  you  wouldn't  sell  to  him  so  he 
sent  Miles  after  you  and  told  him  what  to  say. 
He'd  like  to  run  that  horse  in  his  colours  next 
Saturday  and  win  the  Handicap  with  him." 

"You're  sure  he  ain't  intending  to  lay  him 
up  with  the  books  and  have  him  pulled,  or 
something?" 

"Not  at  this  track,  old-timer.  You  see,  Engle 
is  just  the  least  little  bit  leery  of  Pettigrew. 
They  talked  it  all  over  and  decided  that  it 
wouldn't  be  healthy  for  him  to  buy  a  four-time 
winner  and  make  a  bad  showing  with  him  the 
first  time  out.  He  wants  the  horse  for  a  gam- 
bling tool,  all  right  enough,  but  he  won't  be  fool- 
ish enough  to  do  any  cheating  with  Eliphaz  at 
this  track.  Engle  says  himself  that  he  don't 
dare  take  a  chance — not  with  old  Pettigrew 
[165] 


OLD   MAN    CTJKKY 


laying  for  him — on  general  principles.  Engle 
thinks  that  if  he  buys  the  black  horse  and  wins 
a  good  race  with  him  first  time  out  it  may  pull 
the  wool  over  Pettigrew's  eyes.  He  says  Eli- 
phaz  is  a  cinch  in  the  Handicap  next  Satur- 
day. " 

Old  Man  Curry  fingered  his  beard  for  some 
time  in  silence. 

"Blast  the  luck!''  said  he  suddenly.  "Why 
didn't  I  know  Miles  was  arepresentin'  Al 
Engle!" 

"You'd  have  said  three  thousand,  eh?" 

"No,"  said  Old  Man  Curry.  "No,  son.  Fif- 
teen hundred." 

"Fifteen  hundred!    You  're  crazy ! ' ' 

"Mebbe  I  am,  but  Solomon,  he  says  that  even 
a  fool,  if  he  keeps  his  mouth  shut  tight  enough, 
can  pass  for  a  wise  man.  .  .  .  Frank,  I  wish 
you'd  go  out  and  find  Jimmy  Miles.  Sort  of 
hint  to  him  that  if  he  comes  back  here  he  won't 
be  throwed  out  on  his  head.  Do  that  for  me, 
and  mebbe  you  won't  lose  nothing  by  it." 

The  negotiations  for  the  purchase  of  Eliphaz 
were  long  drawn  out,  but  on  Friday  evening  at 
dusk  Old  Man  Curry  went  into  the  stall  and 
said  good-bye  to  his  four-time  winner. 

"Don't  be  so  skittish!"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man. "I  ain't  come  to  put  the  strap  on  ye.  ... 
Habit  is  a  great  thing,  black  hoss,  a  great  thing. 
In  this  case  I'm  kind  of  dependin'  on  it.  You 
know  what  the  dog  done,  don't  ye?  And  the 
sow  that  was  washed,  she  went  wallerin'  in  the 
[166] 


ELIPHAZ,    LATE   FAIKFAX 


mire,  first  chance  she  got.  That's  in  the  New 
Testament,  but  Peter,  he  got  the  notion  from 
Solomon  and  didn't  give  him  credit  either.  .  .  . 
Good-bye,  black  hoss,  and  whatever  happens, 
good  luck!" 

This  was  at  dusk,  but  it  was  close  to  eleven 
o'clock  when  the  transaction  was  completed  by 
transfer  of  a  fat  roll  of  bills,  which  Old  Man 
Curry  counted  very  carefully. 

"Four  hundred — five  hundred Jimmy, 

this  hoss  has  got  a  engagement  for  the  Handi- 
cap to-morrow — seven  hundred — seven-fifty — 
Was  you  thinkin'  of  startin'  him!" 

"M — well,  yes.  I  think  he's  got  a  chance," 
said  Miles. 

"A  royal  chance 'Leven  hundred — twelve 

hundred.  ...  In  that  case,  price  bein'  satisfac- 
tory and  all,  I  oughtn't  to  hold  out  any  info'ma- 
tion.  This  black  hoss  shouldn't  be  worked  to- 
morrow mornin'.  He  got  his  last  workout  to- 
day; the  full  distance,  and  he's  ready.  I  wasn't 
even  goin'  to  warm  him  up  before  takin'  him  to 
the  paddock.  Some  bosses  run  better  hot ;  some 
run  better  cold.  .  .  .  Fourteen  hundred — fif- 
teen hundred,  and  O.  K. —  Better  not  forget 
that,  Jimmy." 

"I  won't,  old-timer.  Guess  I  better  take  him 
now,  eh?" 

"As  well  now  as  any  other  time.  He's  your 
hoss." 

Major  Ewell  Duval  Pettigrew  was  an  early 
riser,  but  he  was  barely  into  his  trousers  when 
[167] 


OLD   MAN    CUKET 


a  bell  boy  tapped  at  his  door.  The  major  was 
small  and  plump,  with  a  face  like  a  harvest 
moon,  if  you  can  imagine  a  harvest  moon  wear- 
ing a  bristling  moustache  and  goatee.  Horse- 
men knew  to  their  sorrow  that  the  major  owned 
a  long  memory,  a  short  temper,  and  strong 
prejudices.  Consistent  racing  was  his  cry  and 
woe  to  the  in-and-outer. 

"Somebody  to  see  me,  eh?"  sputtered  the 
major.  "Blankety  blank  it  to  blank!  Man 
can 't  even  get  his  breakfast  in  peace !  Oh,  Mr. 
Curry.  Show  the  gentleman  up,  boy." 

"Judge,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  after  shaking 
hands,  "there's  something  you  ought  to  know. 
I  bought  that  Eliphaz  hoss  from  Jimmy  Miles 
— bought  him  cheap." 

"And  a  good  bargain,  suh,"  remarked  Major 
Pettigrew. 

"Mebbe.  "Well,  Miles  has  been  pesterin'  me 
for  a  week  wan  tin'  to  buy  the  hoss  back.  Said 
he  never  would  have  sold  him  if  he  hadn't  been 
in  licker.  He  kind  of  thought  I  took  advantage 
of  him,  he  said,  but  it  wa'n't  true,  judge,  not 
a  word  of  it.  So  last  night  I  let  him  buy  the 
hoss  back — for  cash.  This  mornin'  the  hoss  is 
in  Al  Engle 's  barn." 

"Ah!"  Major  Pettigrew  twisted  his  goatee 
until  it  stuck  out  straight  from  his  chin 
"Engle,  eh?" 

' l  He  knew  I  never  would  have  sold  that  hoss 
to  him,  so  he  sent  Miles,"  explained  Old  Man 
Curry.    "I — I've  had  some  trouble  with  Engle, 
[168] 


ELIPHAZ,    LATE    FAIRFAX 


judge.  I  beat  Mm  a  few  times  when  he  wasn't 
lookin'  for  me  to  win.  In  case  anything  hap- 
pens, I  thought  I  better  see  you  and  explain 
how  Engle  got  hold  of  the  hoss — through  an- 
other party. " 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Major  Pettigrew.  "I  un- 
derstand yo'  position  perfectly,  suh.  Suppose, 
now,  you  had  not  sold  the  animal.  Would  you 
say  he  had  a  chance  to  win  the  Handicap?" 

"  Judge, "  said  Old  Man  Curry  earnestly,  "I 
would  have  bet  on  him  from  hell  to  breakfast. 
Now  I  don't  know's  I  would  put  a  nickel  on 
him." 

"Neither  would  I,  suh.  And,  speaking  ol 
breakfast,  Mr.  Curry,  will  yo'  join  me  in  a 
grilled  kidney?" 

"Thank  you  just  the  same,  judge,  but  I  reck- 
on I  better  be  gettin'  back  to  the  track.  I  had 
my  breakfast  at  sunup.  I  thought  you  ought 
to  know  the  straight  of  how  this  black  hoss 
come  to  change  owners." 

"I  am  indebted  to  you,  suh,"  said  the  major, 
with  a  bow. 

Jockey  Merritt,  wearing  Engle 's  colours, 
stood  in  the  paddock  stall  eyeing  Eliphaz  and 
listening  to  the  whispered  instructions  of  the 
new  owner. 

"Get  him  away  flying,  jock,  and  never  look 
back.  He's  a  fast  breaker.  Keep  him  in  front 
all  the  way,  but  don't  win  too  far." 

"Bettin'  much  on  him?"  asked  Merritt. 

*  *  Not  a  nickel.  He  opened  at  even  money  and 
[169] 


OLD    MAN    CUEBY 


they  played  him  to  4  to  5.  I  don't  fancy  the 
odds,  but  you  ride  him  just  the  same  as  if  the 
last  check  was  down — mind  that.  On  his  work- 
out yesterday  morning  he's  ready  for  a  better 
race  than  any  he's  shown  so  far,  so  bring  him 
home  in  front. ' ' 

The  bugle  blared,  the  jockeys  were  flung  into 
the  saddles  and  the  parade  began.  The  race 
was  at  seven-eighths,  and  as  the  horses  passed 
the  grand  stand  on  the  way  to  the  post  Jockey 
Merritt  heard  his  name  called.  Major  Petti- 
grew  was  standing  on  the  platform  in  front 
of  the  pagoda,  bawling  through  a  mega- 
phone. 

"Boy,  bring  that  black  hoss  over  here!" 

Merritt  reined  Eliphaz  across  the  track, 
touched  the  visor  of  his  cap  with  his  whip,  and 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Son,"  said  Major  Pettigrew,  "you're  on  the 
favourite,  so  don't  make  any  mistakes  with  him. 
I  want  to  see  you  ride  from  start  to  finish — and 
I'm  goin'  to  be  watchin'  you.  That's  all." 

"I'll  do  my  best,  judge,"  was  Merritt 's  an- 
swer. 

"You  see  that  the  hoss  does  his  best,"  warned 
the  major.  "Proceed  with  him,  son." 

The  Handicap  was  a  great  race,  but  we  are 
concerned  with  but  one  horse — Eliphaz,  late 
Fairfax.  When  the  barrier  rose  Jockey  Merritt 
booted  the  spurs  home  and  tried  to  hurl  the  big 
black  into  the  lead.  He  might  as  well  have  tried 
to  get  early  speed  out  of  a  porpoise.  Eliphaz 
[170] 


ELIPHAZ,    LATE    FAIKFAX 


grunted  loudly  and  in  exactly  five  lumbering 
jumps  was  in  last  place ;  the  other  horses  went 
on  and  left  the  favourite  snorting  in  the  dust. 
Jockey  Merritt  raked  the  black  sides  with  his 
spurs  and  slashed  cruelly  with  his  whip — the 
favourite  would  not,  could  not  get  out  of  a  slow, 
awkward  gallop. 

"Blankety  blank  it!"  exclaimed  Major  Petti- 
grew  to  the  associate  judge.  "What  did  I  tell 
you,  eh!  Sure  as  a  gun,  Engle  laid  him  up, 
and  the  books  made  him  favourite  and  took  in 
a  ton  of  money!  Look  at  him,  will  you?  Ain't 
that  pitiful  !" 

"He  runs  like  a  cow,"  said  the  major's  as- 
sistant. "Merritt  is  certainly  riding  him, 
though.  He 's  whipping  at  every  jump. ' ' 

It  was  a  long  way  around  the  track,  and 
probably  only  one  man  was  really  sorry  for 
Eliphaz.  Old  Man  Curry,  at  the  paddock  gate, 
shook  his  head  as  the  black  horse  floundered 
down  the  stretch,  last  by  fifty  yards,  the  blunt 
spurs  tearing  at  his  sides  and  the  rawhide  rais- 
ing welts  on  his  shoulders. 

The  winning  numbers  had  dropped  into  posi- 
tion before  Eliphaz  came  under  the  wire.  Ma- 
jor Pettigrew  took  one  look  at  the  horse  and 
called  to  the  official  messenger. 

'  '  Find  Engle  and  tell  him  I  want  to  see  him ! ' ' 

"Well,  old-timer,  here  we  are  again  with  our 

hat  in  our  hand!"    It  was  the  Bald-faced  Kid, 

at  the  door  of  Old  Man  Curry's  tackle-room. 

"This  time  you've  put  one  over  for  fair!    Ma- 

[171] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


jor  Pettigrew  has  just  passed  out  Ms  decision 
to  the  newspaper  boys." 

*  *  Ah,  hah ! ' '  said  the  old  man,  looking  up  from 
the  Book  of  Proverbs.  "His  decision,  eh? 
Was  he — kind  of  severelike?" 

"Oh,  no — o!  Not  what  you'd  call  severe. 
I  suppose  he  could  have  ordered  Engle  boiled 
in  oil  or  hung  by  the  neck  or  something  like 
that,  but  the  major  let  him  down  light.  All  he 
did  was  to  rule  him  off  the  turf  for  life ! ' ' 

'  <  Gracious  Peter !    You  don 't  tell  me ! " 

"Yes,  and  his  horses  too.  The  whole  bunch! 
Engle  is  almost  crazy.  He  swears  on  his  moth- 
er's grave  that  he's  in-no-cent  and  he's  going 
to  appeal  to  the  Jockey  Club  and  have  Eliphaz 
examined  by  a  'vet'  and  the  Lord  knows  what 
all.  Oh,  he's  wild!  It  seems  that  Pettigrew 
wanted  him  to  prove  that  he'd  backed  the  horse 
and  he  couldn't  produce  the  losing  tickets.  If 
Merritt  hadn't  half  killed  the  horse,  Pettigrew 
would  have  got  him  too." 

"Well,  well!"  said  the  old  man,  turning  back 
to  Proverbs.  "I  was  just  readin'  something 
here.  'He  that  seeketh  mischief,  it  shall  come 
unto  him.'  Engle  has  been  seekin'  mischief  a 
long  time  now  and  look  what  he's  got." 

"Too  true,  old-timer,"  said  the  Bald-faced 
Kid,  "but  who  was  it  ordered  the  mischief 
wrapped  up  arid  delivered  to  him?  Come 
through!" 

"Hold  up  your  right  hand!"  said  Old  Man 
Curry. 

[172] 


ELIPHAZ,    LATE   FAIRFAX 


"  Cross  my  heart  and  hope  to  die  if  I  ever 
tell!"  said  the  Kid.  "Now  then,  come  clean." 

"Frank,"  said  the  old  man,  "do  you  remem- 
ber when  we  was  unloadin'  the  'hosses  and 
ketched  Eliphaz  bitin'  at  the  fence?  .  .  .  You 
do?  Then  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  ask  any 
questions,  because  if  you  know  hosses  like  you 
should  know  'em — in  your  business — you 
wouldn't  need  to  ask  questions. 

"Eliphaz  is  a  cribber,  and  a  cribber  is  a  hoss 
that  sucks  itself  full  of  wind  like  a  balloon.  I 
knew  the  minute  I  see  him  drop  his  head  and 
swallow  that  way  that  cribbin'  was  what  ailed 
him.  That  explained  his  bein'  such  a  bad  race 
hoss.  Jimmy  Miles  probably  never  done  a 
thing  to  correct  that  habit — didn't  know  he 
had  it,  likely. 

"Well,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  keep  the 
hoss's  head  tied  high  in  the  daytime,  because 
no  hoss  will  crib  unless  he  can  get  his  head 
down.  Then  at  night  I  put  on  a  cribbin'  strap 
and  buckled  it  tight  around  his  neck.  He  could 
get  his  head  down  all  right,  but  he  couldn't 
suck  any  air.  With  that  habit  corrected,  Eli- 
phaz was  a  great  hoss. 

"When  I  found  out  that  Engle  wanted  to 
buy  him,  I  let  Eliphaz  crib  all  day  Friday,  after 
he'd  been  worked,  and  when  I  sold  him  I  didn't 
sell  the  strap.  That's  all,  Frank.  When  he 
went  to  the  post  he  was  so  full  of  air  that  if 
Merritt  hadn't  been  settin'  on  him  he'd  have 
gone  up  like  a  balloon.  That's  why  I  warned 

[173] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


you  not  to  let  anybody  bet  on  him.  .  .  .  Did 
yon  do  pretty  well,  Frank!" 

"I  got  a  toothful  while  some  other  folks  was 
getting  a  meal,"  answered  the  Kid.  "  Just  one 
thing  more :  where  did  you  get  that  name — Eli- 
phaz?" 

"That  was  a  sort  of  a  joke,"  confessed  the 
old  man.  "Once  there  was  a  party  named  Job, 
and  he  had  all  sorts  of  hard  luck.  Some  of 
that  hard  luck  was  in  not  bein'  able  to  lose  his 
friends.  They  used  to  come  and  see  him  and 
hold  a  lodge  of  sorrow  and  set  on  the  ground 
and  talk  and  talk — whole  chapters  of  talk — and 
the  windiest  one  of  'em  all " 

"I  get  you!"  chuckled  the  Bald-faced  Kid. 
"That  was  Eliphaz!" 

Old  Man  Curry  nodded. 

"  *  Knowledge  is  easy  unto  him,  that  under- 
standeth,'  "  he  quoted. 

"Yes,  but  an  inside  tip  now  and  then  never 
hurt  anybody,"  said  the  Bald-faced  Kid.  "De- 
clare me  in  on  the  next  miracle,  will  you? " 


[174] 


THE  REDEMPTION  HANDICAP 


WELL,  old  sport,  are  you  going  to  slip 
another  one  over  on  'em  to-day?" 
"What  do  you  think  of  Jeremiah's 
chances,  Mr.  Curry!" 

"Can  this  black  thing  of  yours  beat  the  fa- 
vourite?" 

"There's  even  money  on  Jeremiah  for   a 
place ;  shall  I  grab  it? " 

Old  Man  Curry,  standing  at  the  entrance  to 
a  paddock  stall,  lent  an  unwilling  ear  to  these 
queries.  He  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  truth, 
but  more  firmly  he  believed  in  the  fitness  of 
time  and  place.  The  whole  truth,  spoken  in- 
cautiously in  the  paddock,  has  been  known  to 
affect  closing  odds,  and  it  was  the  old  man's 
habit  to  wager  at  post  time,  if  at  all.  Those  who 
pestered  the  owner  of  the  "Bible  stable"  with 
questions  about  the  fitness  of  Jeremiah  and  his 
chances  to  be  first  past  the  post  went  back  to 
the  betting  ring  with  their  enthusiasm  for  the 
black  horse  slightly  abated.  Old  Man  Curry 
admitted,  under  persistent  prodding,  that  if 
Jeremiah  got  off  well,  and  nothing  happened 
[175] 


OLD   MAN    CUEKY 


to  him,  and  it  was  one  of  his  good  days,  and  he 
didn't  get  bumped  on  the  turn,  and  the  boy  rode 
him  just  right,  and  he  could  stay  in  front  of 
the  favourite,  he  might  win.  Pressed  further, 
a  note  of  pessimism  developed  in  the  patriarch's 
conversation;  he  became  the  bearded  embodi- 
ment of  reasonable  doubt.  Curry's  remarks, 
rapidly  circulating  in  the  betting  ring,  may  have 
made  it  possible  for  Curry's  betting  commis- 
sioner, also  rapidly  circulating  at  the  last  min- 
ute, to  unload  a  considerable  bundle  of  Curry's 
money  on  Jeremiah  at  odds  of  5  and  6  to  1. 

One  paddock  habitue,  usually  a  keen  seeker 
after  information,  might  have  received  a  hint 
worth  money  had  he  come  after  it.  Old  Man 
Curry  noted  the  absence  of  the  Bald-faced  Kid, 
and  when  the  bugle  sounded  the  call  to  the  track 
he  turned  the  bridle  over  to  Shanghai,  the  negro 
hostler,  and  ambled  into  the  betting  ring  in 
search  of  his  young  friend.  The  betting  ring 
was  the  Kid's  place  of  business — if  touting  is 
classed  as  an  occupation  and  not  a  misde- 
meanour— but  Old  Man  Curry  did  not  find  him 
in  the  crowd.  It  was  not  until  the  horseman 
stepped  out  on  the  lawn  that  he  spied  the  Kid, 
his  elbows  on  the  top  rail  of  the  fence,  his  chin 
in  his  hands,  and  his  back  squarely  turned  to 
the  betting  ring.  He  did  not  even  look  around 
when  the  old  man  addressed  him. 

"Well,  Frank,  I  kind  of  expected  you  in  the 
paddock." 

The  Kid  was  staring  out  across  the  track 
[176] 


THE   [REDEMPTION    HANDICAP 


with  the  fixed  gaze  of  one  who  sees  nothing  in 
particular;  he  grunted  slightly,  but  did  not 
speak. 

"Jeremiah — he's  worth  a  bet  to-day." 

"Uh-huh!"  This  without  interest  or  enthu- 
siasm. 

"I  saw  some  5  to  1  on  him  just  now." 

The  Kid  swung  about  and  glanced  listlessly 
toward  the  betting  ring.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
horses  on  their  way  to  the  post.  The  old  man 
read  his  thought. 

"You've  got  a  couple  of  minutes  yet,"  said 
he.  "Mebbe  more;  there's  some  bad  actors  in 
that  bunch,  and  they'll  delay  the  start." 

The  Kid  looked  again  at  the  betting  ring; 
then  he  shook  his  head.  ' '  Aw,  what 's  the  use  ? ' ' 
said  he  irritably.  ' i  What 's  the  use  ? ' ' 

Old  Man  Curry's  countenance  took  on  a  look 
of  deep  concern. 

"What  ails  you,  son?    Ain't  you  well!" 

"Well  enough,  I  guess.    Why?" 

"Because  I  never  see  you  pass  up  a  mortal 
cinch  before." 

The  Kid  chuckled  mirthlessly.  ' l  Old-timer, ' ' 
said  he,  "I'm  up  against  a  cinch  of  my  own — 
but  it's  a  cinch  to  lose." 

He  returned  to  his  survey  of  the  open  field, 
but  Old  Man  Curry  lingered.  He  stroked  his 
beard  meditatively. 

"Son,"  said  he  at  length,  "Solomon  says  that 
a  brother  is  born  for  adversity.  I  don't  know 
what  a  father  is  born  for,  but  I  reckon  it's  to 
[177] 


OLD    MAN    CUEKY 


give  advice.^  Where  you  been  the  last  week  or 
ten  days?  v  It's  mighty  lonesome  round  the 
stable  without  you." 

* 'I'm  in  a  jam,  and  you  can't  help  me." 

"Mebbe  not,  but  it  might  do  some  good  to 
talk  it  all  out  of  your  system.  You  know  the 
number,  Frank." 

"You  mean  well,  old-timer,"  said  the  Kid; 
"and  your  heart's  in  the  right  place,  but  you 
— you  don't  understand." 

"No,  and  how  can  I  'less  you  open  up  and  tell 
me  what's  the  matter?  If  you've  done  any- 
thing wrong " 

6  '  Forget  it ! "  said  the  Kid  shortly.  « '  You  're 
barking  up  the  wrong  tree.  I'm  trying  to  figure 
out  how  to  do  right!"  .  .  . 

That  night  the  door  of  Old  Man  Curry's  tack 
room  swung  gently  open,  and  the  aged  horse- 
man, looking  up  from  his  well-thumbed  copy  of 
the  Old  Testament,  nodded  to  an  expected  vis- 
itor. 

"Set  down,  Frank,  and  take  a  load  off  your 
feet,"  said  he  hospitably.  "I  sort  of  thought 
you'd  come." 

For  a  time  they  talked  horse,  usually  an  en- 
grossing subject,  but  after  a  bit  the  conversa- 
tion flagged.  The  Kid  rolled  many  cigarettes 
which  he  tossed  away  unfinished,  and  the  old 
man  waited  in  silence  for  that  which  he  knew 
could  not  long  be  delayed.  It  came  at  last  in 
the  form  of  a  startling  question.  "Old-timer," 
[178] 


THE  BEDEMPTION    HANDICAP 


said  the  Kid  abruptly,  "  you— you  never  got 
married,  did  you?" 

Old  Man  Curry  blinked  a  few  times,  passed 
his  fingers  through  his  beard,  and  stared  at  his 
questioner.  "Why,  no,  son."  The  old  man 
spoke  slowly,  and  it  was  plain  that  he  was  puz- 
zled. "Why,  no;  I  never  did." 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  it — seriously,  I 
mean?" 

Old  Man  Curry  met  this  added  impertinence 
without  resentment,  for  the  light  was  beginning 
to  dawn  on  him.  He  drew  out  his  packet  of 
fine  cut  and  studied  its  wrappings  carefully. 

"I'm  not  kidding,  old-timer.  Did  you  ever 
think  of  it?" 

6 '  Once, ' '  was  the  reply.  '  '  Once,  son,  and  I  Ve 
been  thinking  about  it  ever  since.  She  was  the 
right  one  for  me,  but  she  got  the  notion  I  wasn't 
the  right  one  for  her.  Sometimes  it  happens 
that  way.  She  found  the  man  she  thought  she 
wanted,  and  I  took  to  runnin'  round  the  country 
with  race  horses.  After  that  she  was  sure  I 
was  a  lost  soul  and  hell-bent  for  certain.  This 
was  a  long  time  ago — before  you  was  born,  I 
reckon." 

After  a  silence,  the  Kid  asked  another  ques- 
tion: 

"Well,  at  that,  the  race-track  game  is  no 
game  for  a  married  man,  is  it?" 

'  '  M-m-well, ' '  answered  the  patriarch  thought- 
fully, "that's  as  how  a  man's  wife  looks  at  it. 
Some  of  'em  think  it  ain't  no  harm  to  gamble 
[179] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


s 'long's  you  can  win,  but  the  average  woman, 
Frank,  she  don't  want  the  hosses  runnin'  for 
her  bread  and  butter.  You  can't  blame  her  for 
that,  because  a  woman  is  dependent  by  nature. 
If  the  Lord  had  figured  her  to  git  out  an'  hustle 
with  the  men,  He  'd  have  built  her  different,  but 
He  made  her  to  be  p'tected  and  shelteredlike. 
A  single  man  can  hustle  and  bat  round  an'  go 
hungry  if  he  wants  to,  but  he  ain't  got  no  right 
to  ask  a  woman  to  gamble  her  vittles  on  any 
proposition  whatever." 

' ' Ain't  it  the  truth!"  ejaculated  the  Bald- 
faced  Kid,  with  a  depth  of  feeling  quite  foreign 
to  his  nature.  "You  surely  spoke  a  mouthful 
then!"  Old  Man  Curry  raised  one  eyebrow 
slightly  and  continued  his  discourse. 

"For  a  man  even  to  figger  on  gettin'  married, 
he  ought  to  have  something  comin'  in  steady 
— something  that  bad  hosses  an'  worse  men 
can't  take  away  from  him.  He  oughtn't  to  bet 
at  all,  but  if  he  does  it  ought  to  be  on  a  mortal 
cinch.  There  ain't  many  real  cinches  on  a  race 
track,  Frank ;  not  the  kind  that  a  married  man  'd 
be  justified  in  bettin'  the  rent  money  on.  Yes, 
sir,  a  man  thinkin'  'bout  gettin'  married  ought 
to  have  a  job — and  stick  to  it!" 

"And  that  job  oughtn't  to  be  on  a  race  track 
either, ' '  supplemented  the  Kid,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  cigarette  which  he  was  rolling.  ' '  But-  that 
ain't  all  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about,  old-timer. 
Suppose,  now,  a  fellow  had  a  girl  that  was  too 
good  for  him — a  girl  that  wouldn't  wipe  her 
[180] 


THE   REDEMPTION    HANDICAP 


feet  on  a  gambler  if  she  knew  it,  and  was 
brought  np  to  think  that  betting  was  wrong. 
And  suppose  now  that  this  fellow  wasn't  even 
a  gambler.  Suppose  he  was  a  hustler — a  tout 
— but  he  'd  asked  the  girl  to  marry  him  without 
telling  her  what  he  was,  and  she'd  said  she 
would.  What  ought  that  fellow  to  do?" 

Old  Man  Curry  took  his  time  about  answer- 
ing; took  also  a  large  portion  of  fine  cut  and 
stowed  it  away  in  his  cheek. 

"Well,  son,"  said  he  gently,  "it  would  de- 
pend a  lot  on  which  the  fellow  cared  the  most 
for — the  race  track  or  the  girl." 

The  Kid  flung  the  cigarette  from  him  and 
looked  up,  meeting  the  old  man's  eyes  for  the 
first  time.  "I  beat  you  to  it,  old-timer!  Win 
or  lose,  I'm  through  at  the  end  of  this  meeting. 
There's  a  fellow  over  in  Butte  just  about  my 
age.  He  was  a  hustler  too,  and  a  pal  of  mine, 
but  two  years  ago  he  quit,  and  now  he's  got  a 
little  gents'  furnishing-goods  place — nothing 
swell,  of  course,  but  the  business  is  growing  all 
the  time.  He's  been  after  me  to  come  in  with 
him  on  a  percentage  of  the  profits,  and  last 
night  I  wrote  him  to  look  for  me  when  they  get 
done  running  here.  That  part  of  it  is  settled. 
No  more  race  track  in  mine.  But  that  ain't 
what  I  was  getting  at.  Have  I  got  to  tell  the 
girl  what  I've  been  doing  the  last  five  years?" 

"Would  you  rather  have  her  find  out  from 
some  one  else,  Frank?" 

"No-o." 

[181] 


OLD   MAN    CUBBY 


"If  you  want  to  start  clean,  son,  the  best 
place  to  begin  is  with  the  girl." 

"But  what  if  she  throws  me  down?" 

"That's  the  chance  you'll  have  to  take. 
YouVe  been  taking  'em  all  your  life." 

"Yes,  but  nothing  ever  meant  as  much  to  me 
as  this  does." 

"Well,  son,  the  more  a  woman  cares  for  a 
man  the  more  she'll  forgive." 

"Did  Solomon  say  that?"  demanded  the  Kid 
suspiciously. 

"No,  7  said  it.  You  see,  Frank,  it  was  this 
way  with  Solomon:  he  had  a  thousand  wives, 
more  or  less,  and  I  reckon  he  never  had  time 
to  strike  a  general  average.  He  wrote  a  lot 
'bout  women,  first  and  last,  but  it  seems  he  only 
remembered  two  kinds — the  ones  that  was  too 
good  to  live  and  the  ones  that  wasn't  worth 
killin'.  It  would  have  been  more  helpful  to 
common  folks  if  he'd  said  something  'bout  the 
general  run  of  women.  You'd  better  tell  her, 
Frank." 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  sighed. 

"  I  'd  rather  take  a  licking.  You  're  sure  about 
that  forgiving  business,  old-timer?" 

"It's  the  one  best  bet,  my  son." 

"Pull  for  it  to  go  through,  then.  Good  night 
— and  thank  you. ' ' 

Left  alone,  Old  Man  Curry  turned  the  pages 
for  a  time,  then  read  aloud: 

"  '  There  be  three  things  which  are  too  won- 
derful for  me,  yea,  four  which  I  know  not :  The 
[182] 


THE   KEDEMPTION   HANDICAP 


way  of  an  eagle  in  the  air;  the  way  of  a  ser- 
pent upon  a  rock;  the  way  of  a  ship  in  the 
midst  of  the  sea,  and  the  way  of  a  man  with  a 
maid — the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid.'  Well, 
after  all,  the  straight  way  is  the  best  way,  and 
the  boy's  on  the  right  track." 

A  few  days  later  Old  Man  Curry,  sunning 
himself  in  the  paddock,  caught  sight  of  the  Kid. 
That  engaging  youth  had  a  victim  pinned  in  a 
corner  and,  programme  in  hand,  was  pointing 
the  way  to  prosperity. 

"Now,  listen,"  he  was  saying;  "you  ain't 
taking  a  chance  when  you  bet  on  this  bird  to- 
day. Didn't  I  tell  you  that  the  boy  that  rides 
him  is  my  cousin?  And  ain't  the  owner  my  pall 
What  better  do  you  want  than  that!  This  tip 
comes  straight  from  the  barn,  and  you  can  get 
20  to  1  for  all  your  money!" 

The  victim  squirmed  and  wriggled  and  twist- 
ed and  would  have  broken  away  but  for  the 
Kid's  compelling  eye.  At  last  he  thought  of 
something  to  say : 

"If  this  here  Bismallah  is  such  a  hell-clinkin' 
good  race  horse,  how  come  they  ain't  all  bettin' 
on  him?" 

"Why  ain't  they?"  the  Kid  fairly  squealed.. 
"Because  we've  been  lucky  enough  to  keep  him 
under  cover  from  everybody!  That's  why! 
Nobody  knows  what  he  can  do ;  the  stable  money 
won't  even  be  bet  here  for  fear  of  tipping  him 
off;  it'll  be  bet  in  the  pool  rooms  all  over  the 
Coast.  He  '11  walk  in,  I  tell  you — just  walk  in ! 
[183] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


Why,  say!  You  don't  think  I'd  tell  you  this  if 
I  didn't  know  it  was  so?  Here  comes  the  own- 
er. I'll  go  talk  with  him.  You  wait  right 
here!" 

It  was  really  the  owner  of  Bismallah,  who, 
speaking  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  told 
the  Bald-faced  Kid  to  go  to  a  warmer  clime. 
The  hustler  returned  to  his  victim  instead. 

"He  says  it's  all  fixed  up;  everything 
framed ;  play  him  across  the  board.  Come  on ! ' ' 

The  victim  allowed  himself  to  be  dragged  in 
the  direction  of  the  betting  ring,  and  Old  Man 
Curry  watched  the  proceedings  with  a  whimsi- 
cal light  in  his  eye.  Later  he  found  a  chance  to 
discuss  the  matter  with  the  Kid.  The  last  race 
was  over,  and  Frank  was  through  for  the  day. 

"  You  're  persuadin'  'em  pretty  strong,  ain't 
you,  son!"  asked  the  old  man.  "You  used  to 
give  advice;  now  you're  makin'  'em  take  it 
whether  they  want  to  or  not. ' ' 

"Where  do  you  get  that  stuff!"  demanded 
the  Kid,  bristling  immediately. 

"Why,  I  saw  you  working  on  that  big  fel- 
low in  the  grey  suit.  I  was  afraid  you'd  have 
to  hit  him  on  the  head  and  go  into  his  pocket 
after  it.  Looked  to  me  like  he  wasn't  exackly 
crazy  to  gamble." 

"Oh,  him!"  The  tout  spat  contemptuously. 
"Do  you  know  what  that  piker  wanted  to  bet? 
Six  dollars,  across  the  board!  I  made  him 
loosen  up  for  fifteen,  and  he  howled  like  a 
wolf." 

[184] 


THE   KEDEMPTION   HANDICAP 


*  *  The  hoss — lost  ? ' '    By  the  delicate  inflection 
and  the  pause  before  the  final  word,  Old  Man 
Curry  might  have  been  inquiring  about  the  last 
moments  of  a  departed  friend.     The  Kid  was 
looking  at  the  ground,  so  he  missed  the  twinkle 
in  the  old  man's  eyes. 

"He  ran  like  an  apple  woman, "  was  the  sul- 
len response.  "Confound  it,  old-timer,  I  can't 
pick  'em  every  time!" 

*  '  No,  I  reckon  not, ' '  said  the  patriarch.    *  *  I — 
reckon — not."    He  lapsed  into  silence. 

"Aw,  spit  it  out!"  said  the  Kid  after  a  time. 
"I'd  rather  hear  you  say  it  than  feel  you  think- 
ing it!" 

Old  Man  Curry  smiled  one  of  his  rare  smiles, 
and  his  big,  wrinkled  hand  fell  lightly  on  the 
boy's  shoulder. 

"What  I  was  thinking  wasn't  much,  son," 
said  he.  "It  was  this:  if  you  can  make  total 
strangers  open  up  and  spend  their  substance 
for  something  they  only  'think  is  there,  you 
ought  to  get  rid  of  an  awful  lot  of  shirts  and 
socks  and  flummery — the  things  that  folks  can 
see.  If  you  can  sell  stuff  that  ain't,  you  surely 
can  sell  stuff  that  is!" 

"I'm  sick  of  the  whole  business!"  The 
words  ripped  out  with  a  snarl.  "I  used  to  like 
this  game  for  the  excitement  in  it — for  the  kick. 
I  used  to  like  to  see  'em  run.  Now  I  don't  give 
a  damn,  so  long  as  I  can  get  some  coin  together 
quick.  And  the  more  you  need  it  the  harder  it 
is  to  get !  To-day  I  had  four  suckers  down  on 
[185] 


OLD    MAN    CUEBY 


different  horses  in  the  same  race,  and  a  sleeper 
woke  up  on  me.  Four  bets  down  and  not  a 
bean!" 

The  twinkle  had  gone  from  the  old  man's 
eyes. 

44  Four  hosses  in  one  race,  eh?  Do  you  need 
the  money  that  bad,  son?" 

For  answer  the  Kid  plunged  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  brought  out  a  five-dollar  gold  piece 
and  a  small  collection  of  silver  coins  which  he 
apread  upon  his  palm. 

"There's  the  bank  roll,"  said  he,  "and  don't 
tell  me  that  Solomon  pulled  that  line  about  a 
fool  and  his  money!" 

The  old  man  calmly  appraised  the  exhibit  of 
precious  metals  before  he  spoke. 

"How  come  you  to  be  down  so  low,  son?" 

"I  was  trying  to  win  myself  out  a  little 
stake,"  was  the  sulky  answer;  "but  they 
cleaned  me.  That's  why  I'm  hustling  so  hard. 
It's  a  rotten  game,  but  it  owes  me  something, 
and  I  want  to  collect  it  before  I  quit ! ' ' 

"Ah,  hah!"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  stroking  his 
beard  meditatively.  "Ah,  hah!  You  haven't 
told  her  yet." 

' '  No,  but  I  'm  going  to.    That 's  honest. ' ' 

"I  believe  you,  son,  but  did  it  ever  strike 
you  that  mebbe  she  wouldn't  want  you  to  make 
a  fresh  start  on  money  that  you  got  this  wayf 
Mebbe  she  wouldn't  want  to  start  with  you." 

"Dough  is  dough."  The  Bald-faced  Kid 
stated  this  point  in  the  manner  of  one  fore- 
[186] 


THE    REDEMPTION    HANDICAP 


stalling  all  argument.  "At  one  time  and  an- 
other IVe  handled  quite  a  lot  of  it  that  I  got 
different  ways,  but  I  never  yet  had  any  trouble 
passing  it  off  on  folks,  and  they  didn't  hold 
their  noses  when  they  took  it  either.  Anything 
that'll  spend  is  good  money,  and  don't  you  for- 
get it!" 

;But  this  girl,  now — mebbe  she  won't  think 


so." 


"What  she  don't  know  won't  hurt  her." 

"Son,  what  a  woman  don't  know  she  guesses 
and  feels,  and  she  may  have  the  same  sort  of  a 
feelin'  that  I've  got — that  some  kinds  of  money 
never  bring  anybody  luck.  A  while  ago  you 
said  this  game  was  rotten,  and  yet  you're  tryin' 
to  cash  in  your  stack  and  pick  up  all  the  sleep- 
ers before  you  quit.  Seems  to  me  I'd  want  to 
start  clean." 

"Dough  is  dough,  I  tell  you!"  repeated  the 
Kid  stubbornly.  He  turned  and  shook  his  fist 
at  the  distant  betting  ring  where  the  cashiers 
were  paying  off  the  last  of  the  winning  tickets. 
"Look  out  for  me,  all  of  you  sharks!"  said  the 
boy.  "From  now  till  the  end  of  the  meeting 
it's  packing-house  rules,  and  everything  goes!" 

"  'A  wise  son  heareth  his  father's  instruc- 
tion,' "  quoted  Old  Man  Curry. 

"I  hear  you,  old-timer,"  said  the  Kid,  "but 
I  don't  get  you.  Next  thing  I  suppose  you'll 
pull  Solomon  on  me  and  tell  me  what  he  says 
about  tainted  money!" 

"I  can  do  that  too.  Let's  see,  how  does  it 
[187] 


OLD    MAN    CUKKY 


go?  Oh,  yes.  *  There  is  that  maketh  himself 
rich,  yet  hath  nothing;  there  is  that  maketh 
himself  poor,  yet  hath  great  riches.'  That's 
Solomon  on  the  money  question,  my  boy. ' ' 

"Huh!"  scoffed  the  unregenerate  one. 
"Solomon  was  a  king,  wasn't  he,  with  dough 
to  burn  1  It 's  mighty  easy  to  talk — when  you  Ve 
got  yours.  I  haven't  got  mine  yet,  but  you 
watch  my  smoke  while  I  go  after  it ! " 

Old  Man  Curry  trudged  across  the  infield  in 
the  wake  of  the  good  horse  Elisha.  Another 
owner,  on  the  day  of  an  important  race,  might 
have  been  nervous  or  worried;  the  patriarch 
maintained  his  customary  calm;  his  head  was 
bent  at  a  reflective  angle,  and  he  nibbled  at  a 
straw.  Certain  gentlemen,  speculatively  in- 
clined, would  have  given  much  more  than  a 
penny  for  the  old  man's  thoughts;  having 
bought  them  at  any  price,  they  would  have  felt 
themselves  defrauded. 

Elisha,  the  star  performer  of  the  Curry 
stable,  had  been  combed  and  groomed  and  pol- 
ished within  an  inch  of  his  life,  and  there  were 
blue  ribbons  in  his  mane,  a  sure  sign  of  the  con- 
fidence of  Shanghai,  the  hostler.  He  was  also 
putting  this  confidence  into  words  and  telling 
the  horse  what  was  expected  of  him. 

"See  all  them  folks,  'Lisha?  They  come  out 
yere  to  see  you  win  anotheh  stake  an '  trim  that 
white  hoss  from  Seattle.  Grey  Ghost,  thass 
whut  they  calls  him.  When  you  hooks  up  with 
fcim  down  in  front  of  that  gran'  stan',  he'll 
[188] 


THE  REDEMPTION  HANDICAP 


think  he's  a  ghost  whut's  mislaid  his  graveyard, 
yes,  indeedy !  They  tells  me  he  got  lots  of  that 
oP  early  speed;  they  tells  me  he  kin  go  down 
to  the  half-mile  pole  in  nothin',  flat.  Let  him 
do  it ;  'tain't  early  speed  whut  wins  a  mile  race ; 
it's  late  speed.  Ain't  no  money  hung  up  on 
that  or  half-mile  pole !  Let  that  white  fool  run 
his  head  off;  he'll  come  back  to  you.  Lawdy, 
all  them  front  runners  comes  back  to  the  reg'lar 
hosses.  Eun  the  same  like  you  allus  do,  an '  eat 
'em  up  in  the  stretch,  'Lisha!  Grey  Ghost — • 
pooh !  I  neveh  seen  his  name  on  no  lamp-post ! 
I  bet  befo'  you  git  th'ough  with  him  he'll  wish 
he'd  saved  some  that  ol'  early  speed  to  finish 
on.  You  ask  me,  'Lisha,  I'd  say  we's  spendin' 
this  yere  first  money  right  now!" 

It  was  the  closing  day  of  the  meeting,  always 
in  itself  an  excuse  for  a  crowd,  but  the  manage- 
ment had  generously  provided  an  added  attrac- 
tion in  the  shape  of  a  stake  event.  Now  a  Jun- 
gle Circuit  stake  race  does  not  mean  great 
wealth  as  a  general  thing,  but  this  was  one  of 
the  few  rich  plums  provided  for  the  horsemen. 
First  money  would  mean  not  less  than  $2,000, 
which  accounted  for  the  presence  of  the  Grey 
Ghost.  The  horse  had  been  shipped  from  Se- 
attle, where  he  had  been  running  with  and  win- 
ning from  a  higher  grade  of  thoroughbreds  than 
the  Jungle  Circuit  boasted,  and  there  were 
many  who  professed  to  believe  that  the  Ghost 's 
victory  would  be  a  hollow  one.  There  were 
others  who  pinned  their  faith  on  the  slow-be- 
[189] 


OLD   MAN    CUERY 


ginning  Elisha,  for  lie  was,  as  his  owner  often 
remarked,  "an  honest  hoss  that  always  did  his 
level  best."  Eight  other  horses  were  entered, 
but  the  general  opinion  seemed  to  be  that  there 
were  only  two  contenders.  The  others,  they 
said,  would  run  for  Sweeney — and  third  money. 

Old  Man  Curry  elbowed  his  way  through  the 
paddock  crowd,  calmly  nibbling  at  his  straw. 
He  was  besieged  by  men  anxious  for  his  opin- 
ion as  to  the  outcome  of  the  race ;  they  plucked 
at  the  skirts  of  his  rusty  black  coat;  they 
caught  him  by  the  arms.  Serene  and  un- 
troubled, he  had  but  one  answer  for  all. 

"Yes,  he's  ready,  and  we're  tryinV 

In  the  betting  ring  Grey  Ghost  opened  at 
even  money  with  Elisha  at  7  to  5.  The  Jungle 
speculators  went  to  the  Curry  horse  with  a  rush 
that  almost  swept  the  block  men  off  their  stands, 
and  inside  of  three  minutes  Elisha  was  at  even 
money  with  every  prospect  of  going  to  odds-on, 
and  the  grey  visitor  was  ascending  in  price. 
The  sturdy  big  stretch-runner  from  the  Curry 
barn  had  not  been  defeated  at  the  meeting;  he 
was  the  known  quantity  and  could  be  depended 
upon  to  run  his  usual  honest  race. 

The  Ghost's  owner  also  attracted  consider- 
able attention  in  the  paddock.  He  was  a  large 
man,  rather  pompous  in  appearance,  hairless 
save  for  a  fringe  above  his  ears,  and  answered 
to  the  name  of  "Con"  Parker,  the  Con  stand- 
ing for  concrete.  He  had  been  in  the  cement 
business  before  taking  to  the  turf,  and  there 
[190] 


THE  REDEMPTION    HANDICAP 


were  those  who  hinted  that  he  still  carried  a 
massive  sample  of  the  old  line  above  his  shoul- 
ders. When  cross-examined  about  the  grey 
horse,  he  blunted  every  sharp  inquiry  with  po- 
lite evasions,  but  he  looked  wiser  than  any  hu- 
man could  possibly  be,  and  the  impression  pre- 
vailed that  he  knew  more  than  he  would  tell. 
Perhaps  this  was  true. 

The  saddling  bell  rang,  and  the  jockeys 
trooped  into  the  paddock,  followed  by  the  roust- 
abouts with  the  tackle.  Old  Man  Curry,  wait- 
ing quietly  in  the  far  corner  of  Elisha's  stall, 
saw  the  Bald-faced  Kid  wriggling  his  way 
through  the  crowd.  He  came  straight  to  the 
old  man. 

"Elisha's  4  to  5  now,"  he  announced  breath- 
lessly, "and  they're  still  playing  him  hard.  The 
other  one  is  5  to  2.  Looks  like  a  false  price  on 
the  Ghost,  and  I  know  that  Parker  is  going  to 
set  in  a  chunk  on  him  at  post  time.  What  do 
you  think  about  it!" 

"You  goin'  to  bet  your  own  money,  son?" 
"I've  got  to  do  it — make  or  break  right 
here." 

"How  strong  are  you?" 
"Just  about  two  hundred  bones." 
"Ah,  hah!"    Old  Man  Curry  paused  a  mo- 
ment for  thought  and  sucked  at  his   straw. 
"Two  hundred  at  5  to  2 — that'd  make  seven 
hundred,  wouldn't  it?    Pretty  nice  little  pile." 
The  Kid's  eyes  widened.    "Then  you  don't 
think  Elisha  can  beat  the  Ghost  to-day?" 
[191] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


"I  ain't  bettin'  a  cent  on  him,"  said  the  old 
man.  '  '  Not  a  cent. ' '  And  the  manner  in  which 
he  said  it  meant  more  than  the  words. 

"Then,  shall  I— !" 

Old  Man  Curry  glanced  over  at  the  grey 
norse,  standing  quietly  in  his  stall. 

"Play  that  one,  son,"  he  whispered. 

After  the  Kid  had  gone  rocketing  back  to 
the  betting  ring,  Curry  turned  to  Jockey  Mose- 
by  Jones. 

"Mose,"  said  he,  "don't  lay  too  far  out  of  it 
to-day.  This  grey  hoss  lasts  pretty  well,  so 
begin  workin'  on  'Lisha  sooner  than  usual. 
He's  ready  to  stand  a  long,  hard  drive.  Bring 
him  home  in  front,  boy!" 

"Sutny  will!"  chuckled  the  little  negro. 
"At's  bes'  thing  I  do!" 

When  the  barrier  rose,  a  grey  streak  shot  to 
the  front  and  went  skimming  along  the  rail, 
opening  an  amazingly  wide  gap  on  the  field.  It 
was  the  Ghost's  habit  to  make  every  post  a 
winning  one;  he  liked  to  run  in  front  of  the 
pack. 

As  he  piloted  the  big  bay  horse  around  the 
first  turn  into  the  back  stretch,  Jockey  Mose 
estimated  the  distance  between  his  mount  and 
the  flying  Ghost,  taking  no  note  of  the  other 
entries.  Then  he  began  to  urge  Elisha  slightly. 

"Can't  loaf  much  to-day,  hawss!"  he  coaxed. 
' '  Shake  yo  'self !  Li  '1  mo '  steam ! ' ' 

The  men  who  had  played  the  Curry  horse  to 
odds  on  and  thought  they  knew  his  running 
[192] 


THE   REDEMPTION   HANDICAP 


habits  were  surprised  to  see  him  steadily  mov- 
ing up  on  the  back  stretch.  It  was  customary 
for  Elisha  to  begin  to  run  at  the  half-mile  pole 
— usually  from  a  tail-end  position — but  to-day 
he  was  mowing  down  the  outsiders  even  before 
he  reached  that  point,  and  on  the  upper  turn  he 
went  thundering  into  second  place — with  the 
Ghost  only  five  lengths  away.  The  imported 
jockey  on  Parker's  horse  cast  one  glance  be- 
hind him,  and  at  the  head  of  the  stretch  he  sat 
down  hard  in  his  saddle  and  began  hand  riding 
with  all  his  might.  Close  in  the  rear  rose  a 
shrill  whoop  of  triumph. 

"No  white  hawss  eveh  was  game,  'Lisha! 
Sic  him,  you  big  red  rascal,  sic  him !  Make  him 
dawgit!" 

But  the  Ghost  was  game  to  the  last  ounce. 
More  than  that,  he  had  something  left  for  the 
final  quarter,  though  his  rider  had  not  expected 
to  draw  upon  that  reserve  so  soon.  The  Ghost 
spurted,  for  a  time  maintaining  his  advantage. 
Then,  annihilating  incredible  distances  with  his 
long,  awkward  strides  and  gathering  increased 
momentum  with  every  one,  Elisha  drew  along- 
side. Again  the  Ghost  was  called  on  and  re- 
sponded, but  the  best  he  had  left  and  all  he  had 
left,  was  barely  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  hold 
his  own.  Opposite  the  paddock  inclosure,  with 
the  grand  stand  looming  ahead,  the  horses  were 
running  nose  and  nose ;  ten  yards  more  and  the 
imported  jockey  drew  his  whip.  Moseby  Jones 
cackled  aloud. 

[193] 


OLD   MAN    CUBBY 


"You  ain't  stuck  on  'is  yere  white  sellin' 
plater,  is  you,  'Lisha?  Whut  you  hangin' 
round  Mm  faw,  then?  Bid  him  good  night  an' 
good-bye!" 

He  drove  the  blunt  spurs  into  Elisha's  sides, 
and  the  big  bay  horse  leaped  out  and  away  in 
a  whirlwind  finish  that  left  the  staggering 
Ghost  five  lengths  behind  and  incidentally  low- 
ered the  track  record  for  one  mile. 

It  was  a  very  popular  victory,  as  was  attested 
by  the  leaping,  howling  dervishes  in  the  grand 
stand  and  on  the  lawn,  but  there  were  some  who 
took  no  part  in  the  demonstration.  Some,  like 
Con  Parker,  were  hit  hard. 

There  was  one  who  was  hit  hardest  of  all,  a 
youth  of  pleasing  appearance  who  drew  several 
pasteboards  from  his  pocket  and  scowled  at 
them  for  a  moment  before  he  ripped  them  to 
bits  and  hurled  the  fragments  into  the  air. 

"Cleaned  out!  Busted!"  ejaculated  the 
Bald-faced  Kid  bitterly.  "The  old  scoundrel 
double-crossed  me ! ' ' 

The  last  race  of  the  meeting  was  over  when 
Old  Man  Curry  emerged  from  the  track  office 
of  the  Eacing  Association.  The  grand  stand 
was  empty,  and  the  exits  were  jammed  with  a 
hurrying  crowd.  The  betting  ring  still  held  its 
quota,  and  the  cashiers  were  paying  off  the 
lines  with  all  possible  speed.  As  they  slapped 
the  winning  tickets  upon  the  spindles,  they  ex- 
changed pleasantries  with  the  fortunate  hol- 
ders. 

[194] 


THE   REDEMPTION   HANDICAP 


"  Just  keep  this  till  we  come  back  again  next 
season,"  said  they.  " We're  lending  it  to  you 
—that's  all." 

Old  Man  Curry  made  one  brisk  circle  of  the 
ring,  examining  every  line  of  ticket  holders, 
then  he  walked  out  on  the  lawn.  The  Bald- 
faced  Kid  was  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  grand 
stand  smoking  a  cigarette.  Curry  went  over 
to  him.  "Well,  Frank,"  said  he  cheerfully, 
"how  did  you  come  out  on  the  day?" 

The  boy  stared  up  at  him  for  a  moment  be- 
fore he  spoke. 

"You  ought  to  know,"  said  he  slowly.  "You 
told  me  to  bet  on  that  grey  horse — and  then 
you  went  out  and  beat  him  to  death ! ' ' 

"Ah,  hah!"  said  the  old  man. 

"I  was  crazy  for  a  minute,"  said  the  Kid. 
"I  thought  you'd  double-crossed  me.  I've 
cooled  out  since  then;  now  I'm  only  sorry  that 
you  didn't  know  more  about  what  your  own 
horse  could  do.  That  tip  made  a  tramp  out  of 
me,  old-timer." 

"Exackly  what  I  hoped  it  would  do,  son," 
and  Old  Man  Curry  fairly  beamed. 

"What's  that?"  The  cigarette  fell  from  the 
Kid's  fingers,  and  his  lower  jaw  sagged.  "You 
thought  Elisha  could  win — and  you  went  and 
touted  me  on  to  the  other  one  I ' ' 

Old  Man  Curry  nodded,  smiling. 

As  the  boy  watched  him,  his  expression 
changed  to  one  of  deep  disgust.  He  dipped  into 
his  vest  pocket  and  produced  his  silver  stop 
[195] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


watch.  "Here's  something  you  overlooked," 
he  sneered.  "Take  it,  and  I'll  be  cleaned 
right!" 

Old  Man  Curry  sat  down  beside  him,  but  the 
Kid  edged  away.  "I  wouldn't  have  thought  it 
of  you,  old-timer,"  said  he. 

"Frank,"  said  the  old  man  gently,  "you 
don't  understand.  You  don't  know  what  I  was 
figgerin'  on." 

' '  I  know  this, ' '  retorted  the  Kid :  "  if  it  hadn  't 
been  for  you,  I  wouldn't  have  to  go  to  Butte 
alone!" 

"You've  told  her,  then?" 

"Last  night." 

"And  I  was  right  about  the  forgivin'  busi- 
ness, son?" 

"Didn't  I  say  she  was  going  to  Butte  with 
me?  We  had  it  all  fixed  to  get  married,  but 
now " 

"Well,  I  don't  see  no  reason  for  callin'  it 
off."  Old  Man  Curry's  cheerfulness  had  re- 
turned, and  as  he  spoke  he  drew  out  his  old- 
fashioned  leather  wallet.  "You  know  what  I 
told  you  'bout  bad  money,  son — tainted  money? 
You  wouldn't  take  my  word  for  it  that  gam- 
blers' money  brings  bad  luck;  I  just  nachelly 
had  to  fix  up  some  scheme  on  you  so  that  you 
wouldn't  have  no  bad  money  to  start  out  with." 
He  opened  the  wallet  and  extracted  a  check  up- 
on which  the  ink  was  scarcely  dry — the  check 
of  the  Eacing  Association  for  the  winner's  por- 
tion of  the  stake  just  decided.  "I  wouldn't 
[196] 


THE   REDEMPTION   HANDICAP 


want  you  to  have  bad  luck,  son,"  the  old  man 
continued.  * 1 1  wanted  you  to  have  good  luck — 
and  a  clean  start.  Here's  some  money  that  it 
wouldn't  hurt  anybody  to  handle — an  honest 
hoss  went  out  and  run  for  it  and  earned  it,  an' 
he  was  runnin'  for  you  every  step  of  the  way! 
Here,  take  it."  He  thrust  the  check  into  the 
boy's  hand — and  let  it  stand  to  his  credit  that 
he  answered  before  looking  at  it. 

"I — I  had  you  wrong,  old-timer,"  he  stam- 
mered: " wrong  from  the  start.  I — I  can't  take 
this.  I  ain't  a  pauper,  and  I — I " 

"Why  of  course  you  can  take  it,  son,"  urged 
the  old  man.  "You  said  this  game  owed  you  a 
stake,  and  maybe  it  does,  but  the  only  money 
you  can  afford  to  start  out  with  is  clean  money, 
and  the  only  clean  money  on  a  race  track  is  the 
money  that  an  honest  hoss  can  go  out  and  run 
for — and  win.  No,  I  can't  take  it  back;  it's  in- 
dorsed over  to  you." 

Then,  and  not  before,  did  the  Kid  look  at  the 
figures  on  the  check. 

"Why,"  he  gasped,  "this — this  is  for  twen- 
ty-four hundred  and  something!  I  don't  need 
that  much!  I — we — she  says  three  hundred 
would  be  plenty!  I " 

"That's  all  right,"  interrupted  Old  Man 
Curry.  "Money — clean  money — never  comes 
amiss.  You  can  call  the  three  hundred  the 
stake  that  was  owin'  to  you;  the  rest,  well,  I 
reckon  that's  just  my  weddin'  present.  Good- 
bye, son,  and  good  luck!" 
[197] 


A  MOENINO  WOBKOUT 


WELL,  boss,  they  sntny  done  it  to  us 
again  to-day.  Look  like  it  gittin' 
to  be  a  habit  on  thisyere  track!" 
Thus,  querulously,  Jockey  Mose- 
by  Jones,  otherwise  Little  Mose,  as  he  trudged 
dejectedly  across  the  infield  beside  his  em- 
ployer, Old  Man  Curry,  owner  of  Elisha,  Elijah, 
Ezekiel,  Isaiah,  and  other  horses  bearing  the 
names  of  major  and  minor  prophets.  Mose  was 
still  in  his  silks — there  were  reasons,  principally 
Irish,  why  the  little  negro  found  it  more  com- 
fortable to  dress  in  the  Curry  tack  room — and 
the  patriarch  of  the  Jungle  Circuit  wore  the  in- 
evitable rusty  frock  coat  and  battered  slouch 
hat.  Side  by  side  they  made  a  queer  picture: 
the  small,  bullet-headed  negro  in  gay  stable  col- 
ours, and  the  tall,  bearded  scarecrow,  the  frayed 
skirts  of  his  coat  flapping  at  his  knees  as  he 
walked.  Ahead  of  them  was  Shanghai,  the 
hostler,  leading  a  steaming  thoroughbred  which 
had  managed  to  finish  outside  the  money  in  a 
race  that  his  owner  had  expected  him  to  win: 
expected  it  to  the  extent  of  several  hundred 
[198] 


A   MORNING    WOKKOUT 


dollars.  "Yes,  suh,  it  gittin'  to  be  a  habit !" 
complained  Little  Mose.  "Been  so  long  since 
I  rode  into  'at  ring  I  fo'get  what  it  feels  like 
to  win  a  race!" 

"It's  a  habit  we're  goin'  to  break  one  of  these 
days,  Mose.  What  happened!" 

< '  Huh !  Ast  me  whut  didn  't  happen !  01 '  'Li- 
jah, he  got  off  good,  an'  first  dash — wham!  he 
gits  bumped  by  'at  ches'nut  hawss  o'  Dyer's. 
I  taken  him  back  some  an'  talk  to  him,  an'  jus' 
when  I'm  sendin'  him  again — powl  Jock  Mer- 
ritt  busts  oP  'Lijah  'cross  'e  nose  'ith  his  whip. 
In  'e  stretch  I  tries  to  come  th'oo  on  inside, 
an'  two  of  'em  Irish  jocks  pulls  oveh  to  'e  rail 
and  puts  us  in  a  pocket.  'Niggeh,'  they  say  to 
me,  'take  'at  oat  hound  home  'e  long  way;  you 
sutny  neveh  git  him  th'oo!'  They  was  right, 
boss !  'Lijah,  he  come  fourth,  sewed  up  like  a 
eagle  in  a  cage!" 

"H'm-m.  And  the  judges  didn't  pay  any 
attention  when  you  claimed  a  foul?" 

Little  Mose  gurgled  wrathfully.  "Huh!  I 
done  claim  three  fouls !  Judges,  they  say  they 
didn't  see  no  foul  a-a-a-tall!  Didn't  see  us  git 
bumped;  didn't  see  Jock  Merritt  hit  'Lijah; 
didn't  see  us  pocketed.  'Course  they  didn't; 
they  wasn't  lookin'  faw  no  foul!  On  'is  track 
we  not  on'y  got  to  beat  hawsses ;  we  got  to  beat 
jocks  an'  judges  too.  How  we  goin'  lay  up  any 
bacon  agin  such  odds  as  that?" 

"It  can't  last,  Mose,"  was  the  calm  reply. 
"  'There  shall  be  no  reward  to  the  evil  man; 
[199] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


the  candle  of  the  wicked  shall  be  put  out.'  " 

"It  burnin'  mighty  bright  jus'  now,  boss. 
Sol'mun,  he  say  that?" 

Old  Man  Curry  nodded,  and  Little  Mose 
sniffed  sceptically.  "Uh  huh.  SoPmun  he 
neveh  got  jipped  out  of  seven  races  in  a  row!" 

"Seven,  eh?"  The  old  man  counted  on  his 
fingers.  "Why,  so  it  is,  Mose!  This  is  the 
seventh  time  they've  licked  us,  for  a  fact!" 
Old  Man  Curry  began  to  chuckle,  and  the 
jockey  eyed  him  curiously. 

"You  sutny  enjoy  it  mo'n  I  do,  boss,"  said 
he. 

"That's  because  you  don't  read  Solomon," 
replied  the  owner.  "Listen:  *A  just  man  fal- 
leth  seven  times  and  riseth  up  again.'  Mose, 
we're  due  to  rise  up  and  smite  these  Philis- 
tines. ' ' 

"Huh!  Why  not  smite  some  'em  Irish  boys 
first?  You  reckon  'em  crooked  judges  kin  see 
us  when  we  risin'  up?" 

"We'll  have  to  fix  it  so's  they  can't  over- 
look us,  Mose." 

"Ought  to  git  'em  some  eyeglasses  then," 
was  the  sulky  response. 

"Seven  and  one — that's  eight,  Mose.  We've 
got  Solomon's  word  for  it." 

Jockey  Moseby  Jones  shook  his  head  doubt- 
fully. "Mebbe  so,  boss,  mebbe  so,  but  thisyere 
Sol'mun's  been  dead  a  lo-o-ng  time  now.  He 
neveh  got  up  agin  a  syndicate  bettin'  ring  an' 
crooked  judgin'.  He  neveh  rode  no  close  finish 
[200] 


A   MORNING   WORKOUT 


'ith  Irish  jocks  an'  had  his  shin  barked  on  'e 
fence.  You  kin  take  Sol'mun's  word  faw  it, 
boss,  but  li'l  Moseby,  he's  f'um  Mizzoury. 
He'll  steal  a  flyin'  start  nex'  time  out  an'  try  to 
stay  so  far  in  front  that  no  Irish  boy  kin  reach 
him  'ith  a  lariat!" 

A  big,  jovial-looking  man,  striding  rapidly 
toward  the  stables,  overtook  them  from  the  rear 
and  announced  his  presence  by  slapping  Old 
Man  Curry  resoundingly  on  the  back.  i '  Tough 
luck ! ' '  said  he  with  a  grin.  *  *  Awful  tough  luck, 
but  you  can't  win  all  the  time,  you  know,  old- 
timer!" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Curry  quietly;  "that's  a 
fact,  Johnson.  Nobody  but  a  hog  would  want  to 
win  all  the  time.  And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  wal- 
lop me  on  the  back  thataway.  I  most  nigh  swal- 
lered  my  tobacco." 

Johnson  laughed  loudly.  "How  do  you  like 
our  track?"  he  asked. 

"Your  track  is  all  righf,"  answered  the  old 
man,  with  just  a  shade  of  emphasis  placed 
where  it  would  do  the  most  good.  "A  visitor 
don't  seem  to  do  very  well  here,  though,"  he 
added. 

"The  fortunes  of  war!"  chuckled  Johnson. 

"Ah,  hah,"  said  Curry.  "My  boy  here  can 
tell  you  'bout  that.  He  says  the  other  jockeys 
fight  him  all  the  way  round  the  track." 

"Well,"  said  Johnson,  "you  know  why  that 
is,  don't  you?  The  boys  ain't  stuck  on  his 
colour,  and  you  can't  blame  'em  for  that,  Curry. 
[201] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


If  you  had  a  boy  like  Walsh,  now,  it  would  be 
different." 

"I'll  bet  it  would!"  was  the  emphatic  re- 
sponse of  Old  Man  Curry. 

"I  think  I  can  get  Walsh  for  you." 

"No-o."  Old  Man  Curry  dropped  his  hand 
on  the  negro 's  shoulder.  i '  No.  Mose  has  been 
ridin'  for  me  quite  some  time  now.  He  suits 
me  first  rate." 

' '  You  're  the  doctor, ' '  grinned  Johnson.  ' '  Do 
as  you  think  best,  of  course.  I'm  only  telling 
you  how  it  is." 

"Thankee.  I  reckon  I'll  play  the  string  out 
the  way  I  started.  Luck  might  change." 

"Yes,  it'll  run  bad  for  a  while  and  then  turn 
right  round  and  get  worse.  So  long!"  John- 
son hurried  on  toward  the  stables,  laughing 
loudly  at  his  ancient  jest,  and  Old  Man  Curry 
looked  after  him  with  a  meditative  squint  in 
his  eyes. 

"  'As  the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot,'  " 
he  quoted  soberly.  "A  man  that  laughs  all  the 
time  ain't  likely  to  mean  it,  Mose,  but  I  don't 
know's  I  would  say  that  Johnson  is  exackly  a 
fool.  No,  he's  a  pretty  wise  man,  of  his  breed. 
He  owns  a  controllin'  interest  in  this  track  (un- 
der cover,  of  course),  he's  got  a  couple  of  books 
in  the  ring,  and  the  judges  are  with  him.  I 
reckon  from  what  he  said  'bout  Walsh  that  he 's 
in  with  the  jockey  syndicate.  No  wonder  he 
wins  races !  Sure,  he  could  get  Walsh  for  me, 
or  any  other  crook-legged  little  burglar  that 
[202] 


A    MORNING    WORKOUT 


would  send  word  to  Johnson  what  I  was  doing ! 
Mose,  yonder  goes  the  man  weVe  got  to  beat!" 

"Him  too,  boss?"  Little  Mose  rolled  his 
eyes.  "Hawsses,  judges,  jocks,  an'  Johnson! 
Sutny  is  a  tough  card  to  beat ! ' ' 

"  'A  just  man  falleth  seven  times  and  riseth 
up  again,'  '  repeated  the  old  man,  "  'but  the 
wicked  shall  fall  into  mischief.'  That's  the 
rest  of  the  verse,  Mose." 

"Boss,"  said  the  little  negro  earnestly,  "I 
don'  wish  nobody  no  hard  luck,  but  if  some- 
body got  to  fall,  I  hope  one  of  them  Irish  jocks 
will  fall  in  front  an'  git  jumped  on  by  ten 
hawsses!" 

"Don't  make  any  mistake  about  it,  Curry  is 
wise.  He  may  look  like  a  Methodist  preacher 
gone  to  seed,  but  the  old  scoundrel  knows  what's 
going  on.  He  ain't  a  fool,  take  it  from  me!" 

The  speaker  was  Smiley  Johnson,  who  was 
addressing  a  small  but  extremely  select  gath- 
ering of  turf  highwaymen  who  had  met  in  his 
tackle-room  to  discuss  matters  of  importance. 
They  were  all  men  who  would  willingly  accept 
two  tens  for  a  five  or  betray  a  friend  for  gain: 
Smiley  Johnson,  Billy  Porter,  Curly  McManus, 
and  Slats  Wilson.  All  owned  horses  and  ran 
them  in  and  out  of  the  money,  as  they  pleased, 
and  not  one  of  them  would  have  trusted  the 
others  as  far  as  a  bull  may  be  thrown  by  the 
tail. 

"We  can  trim  the  old  reprobate,"  continued 
[203] 


OLD    MAN    CUEKY 


Johnson,  "but  we  can't  keep  him  from  finding 
out  that  the  clippers  are  on  him." 

"And  who  cares  if  he  does  know!"  demanded 
Slats  Wilson.  "I'm  in  favour  of  making  it  so 
raw  that  he'll  take  his  horses  and  go  some- 
where else.  Look  at  what  he  did  last  season. 
Got  Al  Engle  and  a  lot  of  other  people  ruled 
off,  didn't  he?  Eaised  particular  hell  all  over 
the  circuit,  the  psalm-singing  old  hypocrite!" 

"He's  got  a  fine,  fat  chance  to  get  anybody 
ruled  off  around  this  track,"  interrupted  Curly 
McManus.  "These  judges  ain't  reformers. 
They  know  who 's  paying  their  salaries. ' ' 

"Sure  they  do,"  assented  Wilson,  "but  the 
longer  this  old  rip  hangs  on  the  more  chance 
there  is  to  get  into  a  jam  of  some  kind.  He's 
a  natural-born  trouble  maker.  If  he  loses  many 
more  races  the  way  he  lost  that  one  to-day,  I 
wouldn't  put  it  past  him  to  go  to  the  news- 
papers with  a  holler.  That  would  hurt.  I'm 
in  favour  of  giving  him  the  gate ! ' ' 

"When  he  hasn't  won  a  race?"  argued  John- 
son. "Use  your  head,  Slats.  Let  him  run  his 
horses,  and  bet  on  'em.  He  may  squawk,  but 
he  can't  prove  anything,  and  when  he's  lost 
enough  dough  he'll  quit." 

"Is  there  any  way  that  we  could  frame  up 
and  get  him  ruled  off?"  asked  Porter. 

"The  ruling  wouldn't  stand,"  said  Johnson. 
"Curry  has  got  too  many  friends  higher  up, 
and  if  we  should  try  it  and  fall  down  it  would 
[204] 


A   MORNING   WORKOUT 


give  the  track  a  black  eye.  The  sucker  horse- 
men would  be  leery  of  us." 

"If  any  framing  is  to  be  done,"  announced 
McManus,  "count  me  out  now.  You  fellows 
know  Grouchy  O'Connor!  Him  and  Engle 
framed  on  Curry  till  they  were  black  in  the 
face,  and  what  did  it  get  'em?  Not  a  nickel's 
worth !  You  Ve  got  to  admit  that  Al  Engle  was 
smart  as  they  make  'em,  but  0  'Connor  tells  me 
that  Curry  made  Al  look  like  a  selling-plater: 
had  him  outguessed  at  every  turn  on  the  track. 
Let  Curry  run  his  horses,  and  our  boys  will  take 
care  of  the  little  nigger." 

"That  Elisha  is  quite  a  horse,"  commented 
Johnson.  "If  they  take  care  of  him,  they'll 
go  some." 

"What's  the  use  of  worrying  about  Elisha?" 
asked  McManus.  "Curry  hasn't  started  him 
yet  at  the  meeting.  He's  trying  to  pick  up 
some  dough  with  Elijah  and  Isaiah  and  the 
others.  They  ain't  so  very  much." 

"Well,  Elijah  would  have  been  right  up  there 
to-day  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  little  timely  in- 
terference now  and  then."  Johnson  grinned 
broadly  as  he  spoke. 

"A  little  timely  interference!"  ejaculated 
Wilson.  "The  boys  did  everything  to  that 
horse  but  knock  him  over  the  fence ! ' ' 

"And  the  judges  didn't  see  a  thing!" 
chuckled  Johnson. 

"Say,  let's  get  down  to  business!"  said 
Porter.  "What  I  want  to  know  is  this,  John- 
[205] 


OLD    MAN    CUKKY 


son:  when  are  you  going  to  cut  loose  with 
Zanzibar?  You  said  we'd  all  be  in  with  that; 
there'll  be  a  sweet  price  on  him,  and  we  ought 
to  clean  up." 

"Zanzibar  is  about  ready,"  answered  John- 
son. "You'll  know  in  plenty  of  time,  and  he's 
a  cinch." 

"And  nobody  knows  a  thing  about  him,"  said 
McManus. 

"Good  reason  why,"  laughed  Porter. 
"That's  a  pretty  smart  trick:  working  him 
away  from  the  track." 

"It's  the  only  thing  to  do,"  said  Johnson. 
"Zanzibar  is  a  nervous  colt,  and  if  I  worked 
him  on  the  track  with  the  other  horses  he'd  go 
all  to  pieces.  That's  why  I  have  Dutchy  take 
him  out  on  a  country  road  and  canter  him.  It 
keeps  him  from  fretting  before  a  race." 

"How  fast  can  he  step  the  three-quarters!" 
asked  Wilson. 

"Fast  enough  to  run  shoes  off  of  anything 
around  here,"  said  Johnson.  "You  needn't 
worry  about  that.  We  won't  have  to  put  him 
up  against  the  best,  though.  Zanzibar  didn't 
do  anything  last  season,  and  he's  bound  to  get 
a  price  in  almost  any  kind  of  a  race." 

6  '  You  're  sure  he 's  under  cover  f ' ' 

"If  he  ain't  under  cover,  a  horse  never  was. 
He  gets  his  work  before  sunrise,  and  at  that 
most  of  it  is  just  cantering.  I've  set  him  down, 
though,  and  I  know  what  he  can  do." 

"It  sounds  all  right,"  admitted  McManus. 
[206] 


A   MORNING   WORKOUT 


"Where  do  we  bet  this  money?"  demanded 
Porter. 

Johnson  laughed.  "That's  a  fool  question! 
The  less  he's  played  at  the  track  the  better. 
We'll  unload  in  the  pool  rooms  on  the  Coast, 
same  as  we  did  before.  Wilson  here  can  enter 
Blitzen  in  the  same  race,  and  they  can't  get 
away  from  making  Blitzen  the  favourite:  on 
form  they'd  have  to  pick  him  to  win  easy.  I'll 
let  it  leak  out  that  I'm  only  sending  Zanzibar 
for  a  workout  and  to  see  whether  he 's  improved 
any  over  last  season.  The  pool  rooms  won't 
know  what  hit  'em." 

' '  Hold  on ! "  said  McManus  suddenly.  *  '  Sup- 
pose Curry  gets  into  the  race." 

"Bonehead!"  growled  Wilson.  "You've  got 
Curry  on  the  brain.  Outside  of  Elisha  there's 
no  class  to  his  string  of  beetles,  and  Elisha  is 
a  distance  horse.  Three-quarters  is  too  short 
for  him." 

"He  can't  get  going  under  half  a  mile !"  sup- 
plemented Porter. 

"Well,"  apologised  McManus,  "I  like  to  fig- 
ure all  the  angles."  .  .  . 

Old  Man  Curry  also  liked  to  figure  all  the 
angles.  He  had  the  utmost  confidence  in  Solo- 
mon's statement  concerning  the  righteous  man 
and  the  seven  falls,  but  this  did  not  keep  him 
from  taking  the  ordinary  precautions  when 
preparing  for  the  eighth  start  and  the  promised 
rising  up.  He  knew  that  the  big  rawboned  bay 
horse  Elijah  was  a  vastly  improved  animal,  but 
[207] 


OLD    MAN    CUKEY 


he  also  desired  to  know  the  company  in  which 
Elijah  would  find  himself  the  next  time  out. 
His  investigations,  while  inconspicuous  were 
thorough,  and  soon  brought  him  in  contact  with 
the  name  of  an  equine  stranger. 

"Zanzibar,  eh?"  thought  the  old  man  as  he 
left  the  office  of  the  racing  secretary.  "Zanzi- 
bar? And  Johnson  owns  him.  ITm-m.  1*11 
have  to  find  out  about  that  one,  sure.  The 
others  don't  amount  to  much.  But  this  Zanzi- 
bar? If  I  only  had  Frank  now!" 

Since  the  Bald-faced  Kid's  retirement  from 
the  turf  the  Curry  secret-service  department 
had  consisted  of  Shanghai  and  Mose,  and  there 
were  times  when  the  shambling  hostler  could 
be  much  wiser  than  he  looked.  It  was  Shanghai 
who  drew  the  assignment. 

"Boy,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  "Johnson  has 
got  a  colt  named  Zanzibar  that  starts  next  Sat- 
urday. I  thought  I  knew  all  the  bosses  in  train- 
in'  round  here,  but  I've  overlooked  this  one. 
Find  out  all  you  can  'bout  him." 

' i  Yes,  suh ! ' '  answered  Shanghai.  ' '  Bes '  way 
to  do  that  would  be  to  bus'  into  a  crap  game. 
Misteh  Johnson  got  a  couple  cullud  swipes  whut 
might  know  somethin' — crap-shootin '  fools, 
both  of  'em — an'  whiles  I'm  rollin'  them  bones 
I  could  jus'  let  a  few  questions  slip  out.  Yes, 
suh,  that's  good  way,  but  when  you  ain't  shoot- 
in'  yo'  money  in  the  game  they  jus'  nachelly 
don '  know  you  'mong  them  present.  If  you  got 
couple  nice,  big,  moon-face'  dollahs  to  inves', 
[208] 


A  MORNING   WORKOUT 


they  can't  he'p  but  notice  you.    They  got  to  do 
it!" 

Old  Man  Curry  smiled  and  dipped  two  fin- 
fiers  and  a  thumb  into  his  vest  pocket. 

"Thank  you,  suh!"  chuckled  Shanghai,  try- 
ing hard  to  appear  surprised.  " Thank  you! 
This  sutny  goin'  combine  business  with  pleas- 
uah!" 

"Get  away  with  you!"  scolded  Old  Man 
Curry. 

Now,  nearly  every  one  knows  that  the  simon- 
pure  feed-box  information,  the  low-down  and 
the  dead-level  tip,  may  be  picked  up  behind  any 
barn  where  hostlers,  exercise  boys,  and  appren- 
tice jockeys  congregate.  Tongues  are  loosened 
at  such  a  gathering,  and  the  carefully  guarded 
secrets  of  trainers  and  owners  are  in  danger, 
for  the  one  absorbing  topic  of  conversation  is 
horse,  and  then  more  horse. 

Shanghai  knew  exactly  where  to  go,  and  de- 
parted on  his  mission  whistling  jubilantly  and 
chinking  two  silver  dollars  in  his  pocket. 

At  the  end  of  three  hours  he  returned,  his 
hamlike  hands  thrust  deep  into  empty  pockets, 
and  the  look  in  his  eye  of  one  who  has  watched 
rosy  dreams  vanish. 

" Where  you  been  all  this  time?"  snapped  his 
employer  wrathfully.  "  'As  vinegar  to  the 
teeth,  and  as  smoke  to  the  eyes,  so  is  a  sluggard 
to  them  that  send  him.'  I  declare,  Solomon 
must  have  had  some  black  stable  boys!  What 
you  been  at,  you  triflin'  hound?" 
[209] 


OLD    MAN    CUEKY 


Shanghai  smiled  a  sorrowful  smile  and  shook 
his  head. 

"Well,  you  see,  kunnel" — Shanghai  always 
gave  his  employer  a  high  military  rank  when 
in  fear  of  rebuke — "you  see,  kunnel,  it  took 
'em  longer  'n  usual  to  break  me  this  mawnin'. 
I  start '  off  right  good,  but  I  sutny  bowed  a 
tendon  an'  pulled  up  lame.  Once  I  toss  six 
passes  at  them  gamblehs " 

"Never  mind  that!  What  did  you  find  out 
about  Zanzibar?" 

"Oh,  him!"  Shanghai  blinked  rapidly  as  if 
dispelling  a  vision.  "Zanzibar!  Why,  kunnel, 
they  aimin'  to  slip  him  oveh  Saturday." 

"Ah,  hah!"  Old  Man  Curry  tugged  at  his 
white  beard.  "Ah,  hah.  I  thought  so.  Had 
him  under  cover,  eh?  Where  have  they  been 
workin'  him?" 

"Out  on  the  county  road  'bout  two  miles 
f 'um  yere.  You  know  that  nice  stretch  with 
all  them  trees?  Every  mawnin',  early,  they 
takes  him  out " 

"Who  takes  him  out?" 

"Li'l  white  boy  they  calls  Dutchy." 

"Nobody  else  goes  with  him?" 

Shanghai  shook  his  head. 

"How  old  is  this  boy?"  asked  the  canny 
horseman. 

' '  How  ole  ?  Why,  kunnel,  I  reckon  he 's  risin ' 
fifteen,  mebbe." 

"Smart  boy?" 

Shanghai  cackled  derisively. 
[210] 


A   MORNING   WORKOUT 


"I  loaned  him  a  two-bit  piece,  kunnel,  an'  he 
tol'  me  all  he  knowed!" 

Old  Man  Curry  fell  to  combing  his  beard,  and 
Shanghai  retreated  to  the  tackle-room  where 
he  found  Little  Mose. 

"The  boss,  he  pullin'  his  whiskehs  an'  cookin' 
up  a  job  on  somebody,"  remarked  the  hostler. 

"Huh!"  grunted  Mose.  "It's  time  he  'uz 
doin'  somethin'  I  Betteh  not  leave  it  all  to  Sol'- 
mun!" 

The  cooking  process  lasted  until  evening,  by 
which  time  Old  Man  Curry  had  ceased  to  comb 
his  beard  and  was  rolling  a  straw  reflectively; 
from  one  corner  of  his  mouth  to  the  other. 

"You,  Shanghai!" 

"Yes,  suh!    Comin'  up!" 

"Find  that  little  rascal  Mose  and  tell  him  I 
want  to  see  him." 

"Yes,  suh." 

"And,  Shanghai!" 

"Yes,  suh." 

"I  believe  I've  found  the  way  to  rise  up!" 

"Good  news!"  ejaculated  the  startled  negro, 
backing  away.  But  to  himself  the  hostler  said: 
"Rise  up?  Sweet  Ian'  o'  libuhty!  I  wondeh 
whut  bitin'  the  ole  man  now?" 

It  was  a  small  and  very  sleepy  exercise  boy 
whom  Smiley  Johnson  tossed  into  the  saddle 
at  four  o'clock  on  Saturday  morning:  a  boy^ 
whose  teeth  were  chattering,  for  he  was  cold. 

"Canter  him  the  usual  distance,  Dutchy," 
said  the  owner.  "Then  set  him  down,  but  not 
[211] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


for   more  than    half    a   mile.      Understand  V9 

"Y-yes,  sir,"  stammered  the  boy,  rubbing  his 
eyes  with  the  back  of  one  hand. 

" Don't  let  him  get  hot,  now!" 

"No,  sir;  I  won't." 

' l  All  right.    Take  him  away ! ' ' 

Johnson  slapped  Zanzibar  on  the  shoulder, 
and  the  colt  moved  off  in  the  gloom.  His  rider, 
whose  other  name  was  Herman  Getz,  huddled 
himself  in  the  saddle  and  reflected  on  several 
things,  including  the  hard  life  of  an  exercise 
boy,  the  perils  of  the  dark,  and  the  hot  cup  of 
coffee  which  he  would  get  on  his  return. 

Wrapped  in  these  meditations,  he  had  trav- 
elled some  distance  before  he  became  aware  of 
a  dark  shape  in  the  road  ahead.  Coming  closer, 
Herman  saw  that  it  was  a  horse  and  rider,  evi- 
dently waiting  for  him. 

"Howdy,  Jockey  Walsh!"  called  a  voice. 

The  shortest  cut  to  an  exercise  boy 's  heart  is 
to  address  him  as  Jockey.  Herman's  heart 
warmed  toward  this  stranger,  and  he  drew 
alongside,  trying  to  make  out  his  features  in 
the  darkness. 

"  'Taint  Walsh,"  said  Herman,  not  without 
regret.  "It's  Getz." 

"Jockey  Getz?  I  don'  seem  to  place  you, 
jock.  Where  you  been  ridin'?  East?" 

"I  ain't  a  jock.  I'm  only  gallopin' 'em.  Who 
are  you?" 

"Jockey  Jones,  whut  rides  faw  Misteh 
Curry.  If  you  ain't  a  jock,  you  sutny  ought  to 
[212] 


A   MORNING    WORKOUT 


be.  You  don't  set  a  hawss  like  no  exercise  boy. 
Thass  why  I  mistook  you  faw  Walsh." 

"What  horse  is  that!" 

"This  jus'  one  'em  Curry  beetles.  Whut 
you  got,  jock?" 

"Zanzibar." 

"Any  good?" 

"Well,"  was  the  cautious  reply,  "he  ain't 
done  anything  yet. ' ' 

The  boys  jogged  on  for  some  time  in  silence. 
"You  sutny  set  him  nice  an'  easy,"  commented 
Mose.  "Le's  breeze  'em  a  little  an'  see  how 
you  handle  a  hawss."  Mose  booted  his  mount 
in  the  ribs,  chirruped  twice,  and  the  horse 
broke  into  a  gallop.  Herman  immediately  fol- 
lowed suit,  and  soon  the  riders  were  knee  to 
knee,  flying  along  the  lonely  road. 

"Shake  him  up,  jock!"  urged  Little  Mose. 
"That  all  you  kin  get  out  of  him?  Shake  him 
up,  if  you  knows  how!" 

Of  course  Herman  could  not  allow  any  one  to 
hint  that  he  did  not  know  how.  He  went  out 
on  Zanzibar's  neck  and  shook  him  up  vigorous- 
ly, a  la  Tod  Sloan  in  his  palmy  days.  The  colt 
began  to  draw  ahead.  From  the  rear  came 
shrill  encouragement. 

"Thass  whut  I  calls  reg'luh  race  ridin',  jock! 
Let  him  out  if  he  got  some  lef ' !  Let  him  out ! ' ' 

Carried  away  by  these  kind  words,  Herman 

forgot  his  instructions:  forgot  everything  but 

the  thrill  of  the  race.    He  drove  his  heels  into 

Zanzibar's  sides  and  crouched  low  in  the  saddle. 

[213] 


OLD   MAN    CURBY 


The  cold  dawn  wind  cut  like  a  knife.    After  a 
time  there  came  a  wail  from  the  rear. 

"Nothin'  to  it,  jock!  Yon  too  good!  Too 
good !  Wait  f  aw  me. ' ' 

Herman  drew  rein,  and  soon  Mose  was  along- 
side again.  " Canter  'em  a  while  now/'  said 
he.  "Say,  who  taught  you  to  ride  like  that?" 

"Nobody,"  answered  Herman  modestly.  "I 
just  picked  it  up." 

"A  natchel-bawn  race  rideh.  Sometimes  you 
finds  'em.  I  wish't  I  could  set  a  hawss  down 
like  that.  Show  me  again." 

"It's  easy,"  bragged  Herman,  and  proceed- 
ed to  demonstrate  that  statement.  Again  the 
compliments  floated  from  the  rear,  coupled  with 
requests  for  speed,  and  yet  more  speed.  Mose 
was  not  an  apt  pupil,  however,  for  he  required 
a  third  lesson,  and  at  the  end  of  it  Zanzibar 
was  blowing  heavily.  Mose  suggested  that  they 
turn  and  go  back.  "If  I  could  git  that  much 
out  of  a  hawss,  I  wouldn't  take  off  my  cap  to 
no  jock!"  said  he.  "Whyn't  you  make  John- 
son give  you  a  mount  once  in  a  while  I ' ' 

"He  says  I  ain't  smart  enough,"  was  the  sul- 
ky reply. 

Little  Mose  laughed.  "He  jus'  pig-headed, 
thass  all  ail  him!  You  like  to  git  a  reg'luh  job 
ridin'  faw  a  good  man  I" 

"Would  II" 

"Well,  I  knows  a  man  whut  wants  a  good 
boy.     See  that  tree  yondehf     That  big  one? 
Le's  see  who  kin  get  there  first!" 
[214] 


A  MORNING   WORKOUT 


"It—it's  pretty  far,  ain't  it!" 

"Shucks!  Quahteh  of  a  mile,  mebbe.  Come 
on!" 

Bnt  it  was  nearer  half  a  mile,  and  the  three 
brisk  sprints  had  told  on  the  colt.  Boot  him 
never  so  hard,  it  was  all  Herman  could  do  to 
keep  Zanzibar  on  even  terms  with  Mose's 
mount. 

"You  on'y  foolin'  'ith  me.  He  kin  do  bet- 
teh  than  that!  We  in  the  stretch  now;  shake 
him  up!" 

Zanzibar  was  shaken  up  for  the  fourth  and 
last  time — shaken  up  to  the  limit — and  Mose 
was  generous  enough  to  say  that  the  race  was 
a  dead  heat. 

As  the  boys  brought  the  horses  to  a  walk, 
another  negro  stepped  out  from  behind  a  tree, 
a  blanket  on  his  arm.  Mose  slipped  from  the 
saddle  and  tossed  the  bridle  to  Shanghai. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  ride  back  to  the  track?" 
demanded  Herman. 

"No.  My  boss,  he  always  wants  this  skate 
blanketed  an'  led  round  a  while.  .  .  .  Sufferin' 
mackerel,  jock!  What  you  goin'  do  'ith  that 
hawss?  Shave  him?" 

Then  for  the  first  time  Herman  realised  that 
Zanzibar  was  lathered  with  sweat ;  for  the  first 
time  also  he  recalled  his  instructions. 

"I  can't  take  him  back  like  that!"  he  cried. 
"Johnson '11  kill  me!     He  told  me  not  to  get 
this  horse  hot:  and  look  at  him!" 
[215] 


OLD    MAN    CUREY 


"He  sutny  some  warm/'  said  Shanghai  criti- 
cally. "He  steamin'  like  a  kettle !" 

"Whut  if  he  1st"  asked  Mose.  "We  kin  fix 
that  all  hunky-dory,  an7  Johnson,  he  won't  nev- 
eh  know." 

"How  can  we  fix  it?" 

"Got  to  let  that  sweat  dry  first,"  warned 
Shanghai. 

"And  then  wipe  it  off,"  said  Mose. 

"It  comes  off  easy  when  it's  dry,"  supple- 
mented Shanghai  as  he  started  down  the  road 
with  the  other  horse. 

"Let  him  stand  a  while,"  said  Mose.  "We'll 
tie  him  up  to  this  tree.  Pity  you  ain't  ridin' 
some  'em  races  Johnson's  jock  tosses  off.  Once 
round  that  limb's  enough.  He'll  stand." 

And  for  rather  more  than  half  an  hour  the 
good  colt  Zanzibar  shivered  in  a  cold  wind  while 
Herman  warmed  himself  in  the  genial  glow  of 
flattering  speeches  and  honeyed  compliments. 

"He  looks  dry  now,"  said  Mose  at  length. 
* l  We  '11  rub  him  down  with  grass.  See  how  easy 
it  comes 'off  an'  don't  leave  no  marks  neither. 
Mebbe  you  betteh  not  say  any  thin'  to  yo'  boss 
'bout  this." 

"Say,  you  don't  think  I'm  a  fool,  do  you?" 

"Sutny  not!  I  see  yo'  a  pretty  wise  kid,  all 
right!" 

"If  I  could  only  get  that  reg'lar  job  you  was 
taJkin'  about!" 

"It  boun'  to  come,  jock,  boun'  to  come!  You 
be  steerin'  'em  down  'at  ol'  stretch  one  of  these 
[216] 


A   MORNING   WORKOUT 


days,  sure!    If  we  jus'  had  a  li'l  wateh,  now, 
we  could  do  a  betteh  job  on  'is  hawss." 

"He's  shakiTi '  a  lot,  ain't  he?"  asked  Her- 
man. 

"Nuhvous,  thass  all  ail  him.  My  side  'mos' 
clean  a 'ready ;  how  you  gettin'  along?" 

Smiley  Johnson  stood  at  the  entrance  to  his 
paddock  stall  shaking  hands  with  acquaintances, 
slapping  his  friends  on  the  back,  and  pass- 
ing out  information.  "I  don't  know  a  great 
deal  about  this  horse,"  he  would  remark  confi- 
dently. "He  wasn't  much  account  last  season 
— too  nervous  and  high-strung.  I'm  only  send- 
ing him  to-day  to  see  what  he'll  do,  but  of 
course  he  never  figured  to  beat  horses  like  Blit- 
zen.  Not  enough  class." 

Curly  McManus  forced  his  way  into  Zanzi- 
bar's stall  and  moved  to  the  far  corner  where 
Johnson  followed  him. 

"Curry  is  in  the  betting  ring,"  McManus 
whispered. 

"Well,  what  of  that!" 

"He's  betting  an  awful  chunk  of  dough  on 
Elijah;  they're  giving  him  4  and  5  to  1." 

"The  more  he  bets  the  more  he'll  lose." 

"But  it  ain't  like  him  to  unbelt  for  a  chunk 
unless  he  knows  something." 

Johnson  chuckled. 

"Most  of  his  betting  is  done  in  books  where 
I've  got  an  interest.  D'you  think  they'd  be 
laying  top  prices  on  Elijah  if  they  didn't  know 
something  toot" 

[217] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


"I  guess  that's  right,  Smiley.  You  didn't 
warm  this  one  up  to-day.  Why?" 

"It  would  make  him  too  nervous:  the  crowd, 
and  all." 

"He's  fit,  is  he?" 

"Fitter  than  a  snake!  We're  getting  8  and 
10  to  1  in  the  pool  rooms  all  over  the  Coast, 
and  I  wish  we'd  gone  even  stronger  with  him. 
Here  comes  Curry  now.  Listen  to  me  kid  him ! ' ' 

The  old  man  entered  the  paddock  from  the 
betting  ring,  bound  for  Elijah's  stall.  Johnson 
halted  him  with  a  shout.  "Well,  old  Stick-in- 
the-mud  !  You  trying  to-day  ? ' ' 

"I'm  always  trying"  answered  Curry  mild- 
ly. "My  hosses  are  always  tryin*  too." 

"Wish  you  a  lot  of  luck!" 

"Same  to  you,  sir;  same  to  you." 

"But  everybody  can't  win." 

"True  as  gospel.  I  found  that  out  right 
here  at  this  track." 

Old  Man  Curry  continued  on  his  way  as  calm 
and  untroubled  as  if  his  pockets  were  not  load- 
ed down  with  pasteboards  calling  for  a  small 
fortune  in  the  event  of  Elijah's  winning  the 
race.  His  instructions  to  Little  Mose  were 
brief: 

"Get  away  in  front  and  stay  there." 

A  few  moments  later  Johnson  and  McManus 
leaned  over  the  top  rail  of  the  fence  and 
watched  the  horses  on  their  way  to  the  post. 

"That  colt  of  yours  looks  a  little  stiff  to  me," 
said  McManus  critically. 
[218] 


A  MORNING   WORKOUT 


" Nonsense!  He  may  be  a  bit  nervous,  but 
he  ain't  stiff. " 

"Well,  I  hope  he  ain't.  Curry's  horse  looks 
good." 

Later  they  levelled  their  field  glasses  at  the 
starting  point.  Johnson  could  see  nothing  but 
his  own  colours:  a  blazing  cherry  jacket  and 
cap;  McManus  spent  his  time  watching  Little 
Mose  and  Elijah. 

"Smiley,  that  nigger  is  playing  for  a  run- 
ning start." 

"Let  him  have  it.  Zanzibar '11  be  in  front  in 
ten  jumps.  Hennessey  knows  just  how  to 
handle  the  colt,  and  he's  chain  lightning  on  the 
break." 

"I  suppose  the  boy  on  Blitzen'll  take  care  of 
the  nigger  if  he  has  to.  Slats  gave  him  orders. 
They're  off!" 

Johnson  opened  his  mouth  to  say  something, 
but  the  words  died  away  into  a  choking  gurgle. 
Instead  of  rushing  to  the  front,  the  cherry  jack- 
et was  rapidly  dropping  back.  It  was  McManus 
who  broke  the  stunned  silence. 

"In  front  in  ten  jumps,  hey?  He's  last  in 
ten  jumps,  that's  what  he  is:  stiff er'n  a  board! 
And  look  where  Curry's  nigger  is,  will  you?" 

"To  hell  with  Curry's  nigger!"  barked 
Johnson.  "Look  at  the  colt!  He — he  can't 
untrack  himself:  runs  like  he  was  all  bound  up 
somehow!  Something  has  gone  wrong,  sure!" 

' '  You  bet  it  has ! ' '  snarled  McManus.  * '  Quite 
[219] 


OLD   MAN    CUBKY 


a  pile  of  dough  has  gone  wrong,  and  some  of  it 
was  mine  too ! ' ' 

A  comfortable  ten  lengths  to  the  good  at  the 
upper  turn,  Little  Mose  addressed  a  few  vig- 
orous remarks  to  his  mount. 

"This  a  nice  place  faw  us  to  stay,  'Lijah! 
Them  Irish  boys  all  behin'  us!  Nobody  goin' 
bump  you  to-day!  Nobody  goin'  slash  you  'ith 
no  whip!  Go  on,  big  red  hawss!  Show  'em 
how  we  risin'  up!" 

"The  nigger '11  win  in  a  romp!"  announced 
McManus  disgustedly. 

"Oh,  dry  up!  I  want  to  know  what's  hap- 
pened to  Zanzibar!" 

"I  can  tell  you  what's  going  to  happen  to 
him,"  remarked  the  unfeeling  McManus. 
' '  He 's  going  to  finish  last,  and  a  damn  bad  last 
at  that.  Why,  he  can't  get  up  a  gallop !  Didn't 
you  know  any  more  than  to  start  a  horse  in 
that  condition?" 

"But  how  the  devil  did  he  get  stiff  all  at 
once?"  howled  Johnson. 

"That's  what  you'd  better  find  out.  How  do 
we  know  you  didn't  cross  us,  Johnson?  It 
would  be  just  like  you!" 

Old  Man  Curry,  watching  at  the  paddock 
gate,  thrust  his  hands  under  the  tails  of  his 
rusty  frock  coat  and  smiled. 

"  'A  just  man  falleth  seven  times  and  riseth 
up   again!'"    he   quoted    softly.      "And    the 
wicked:  well,  they'll  have  a  mighty  lame  hoss 
on  their  hands,  I  reckon." 
[220] 


A  MORNING   WORKOUT 


Mose  began  checking  Elijah  several  lengths 
in  front  of  the  wire. 

" Don't  go  bustin'  a  lung,  hawss,"  said  he. 
"  Might  need  it  again.  You  winnin'  by  a  mile. 
A-a-a  mile.  SoPmun  was  right,  but  maybe  he 
wouldn't  have  been  if  I  hadn't  done  some  risin' 
up  myse'f  this  mawninM  Whoa,  hawss!  This 
where  they  pay  off!  We  th'oo  faw  the  day!" 

Old  Man  Curry  was  striding  down  the  track 
from  the  judges'  stand  when  he  met  a  large 
man  whose  face  was  purple  and  his  language 
purple  also. 

"Man,  don't  talk  like  that!"  said  Curry  re- 
provingly. "And  ca'm  down  or  you'll  bust  an 
artery.  You  can't  win  all  the  time:  that's 
what  you  told  me." 

Johnson  sputtered  like  a  damp  Eoman 
candle,  but  a  portion  of  his  remarks  were  in- 
telligible. 

"Oh,  Zanzibar 1 ' '  said  Old  Man  Curry.  " He 's 
a  right  nice  colt.  He  ought  to  be.  He  pretty 
nigh  run  the  legs  off  my  'Lisha  this  mornin'." 

"Wha— what's  that?" 

"Yes,"  continued  Old  Man  Curry;  "they 
had  it  back  an'  forth  up  that  road,  hot  an' 
heavy.  I  expect  maybe  Zanzibar  got  a  chill 
from  sweatin'  so  hard." 

Out  of  the  whirl  of  Mr.  Johnson's  remarks 
and  statements  of  intention  Curry  selected  one. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  reckon  you  won't  beat 
that  German  kid  to  death.  He  didn't  know  any 
better.  You  won't  lay  a  finger  on  him,  be- 
[221] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


cause  why?  He's  on  a  railroad  train  by  now, 
goin'  home  to  Cincinnati.  I  reckoned  his 
mother  might  like  to  see  him.  And  you  ain't 
goin'  to  make  no  trouble  for  me,  Johnson.  Not 
a  mite.  You  might  whip  a  little  kid,  you  big, 
bulldozin'  windbag,  but  I  reckon  you  won't 
stand  up  to  a  man,  no  matter  how  old  he  is!" 
"I — I'll  have  your  entries  refused!" 
" Don't  go  to  no  such  trouble  as  that,"  was 
the  soothing  reply.  " There  won't  be  no  more 
Curry  entries  at  this  track.  A  just  man  might 
fall  down  seven  times  again  in  such  a  nest  of 
thieves  an'  robbers!  Tell  that  to  your  judges, 
an'  be  damned!" 

And,  head  erect,  shoulders  squared,  and  eyes 
flashing,  Old  Man  Curry  started  for  the  betting 
ring  to  collect  his  due. 


[222] 


EGYPTIAN  COKN 


WELL,  you  great  big  hammer-headed 
lobster,  what  have  you  got  to  say 
for  yourself,  eh?    Don't  stand  there 
and  look  wise  when  I'm  talking  to 
you!    Ain't  there  a  race  in  this  country  long 
enough  for  you  to  win?     A  mile  and  a  half 
ought  to  give  you  a  chance  to  open  up  and  step, 
but  what  do  you  do?    You  come  last,  just  be- 
ginning to  warm  up  and  go  some !    Sometimes 
I  think  I  ought  to  sell  you  to  a  soap  factory,  you 
clumsy  false  alarm,  you  ugly  old  fraud,  you 
cross  between  a  mud  turtle  and  a  carpenter's 

bench,  you " 

At  this  point  Slim  Kern  became  extremely 
personal,  speaking  his  mind  concerning  the 
horse  Pharaoh,  his  morals,  his  habits,  and  his 
ancestors.  Some  of  his  statements  would  have 
raised  blisters  on  a  salamander,  but  Pharaoh 
listened  calmly  and  with  grave  dignity. 

Pharaoh  was  not  handsome.    He  was,  as  Slim 

had  said,  a  hammer-headed  brute  of  imposing 

proportions.     But   for   his   eyes  no   turfman 

would  have  looked  at  him  twice.     They  were 

[223] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


large,  clear,  and  unusually  intelligent ;  they  re- 
deemed his  homely  face.  Without  them  he 
would  have  been  called  a  stupid  horse. 

An  elderly  gentleman  sat  on  a  bale  of  hay 
and  listened  to  Slim's  peroration.  As  it  grew 
in  power  and  potency  the  listener  ceased  to 
chew  his  straw  and  began  to  shake  his  head. 
When  Slim  paused  for  breath,  searching  his 
mind  for  searing  adjectives,  a  mild  voice  took 
advantage  of  the  silence. 

" There  now,  Slim,  ain't  you  said  enough  to 
him?  Seems  like,  if  it  was  me,  I  wouldn't  cuss 
a  hoss  so  strong — not  this  hoss  anyway.  He 
ain't  no  fool.  Chances  are  he  knows  more'n 
you  give  him  credit  for.  Some  bosses  don't 
care  what  you  say  to  'em — goes  in  one  ear  and 
out  the  other — but  Pharaoh,  he's  wise.  He 
knows  that  ain't  love  talk.  He's  chewin'  it  over 
in  his  mind  right  now.  By  the  look  in  his  eye, 
he's  askin'  himself  will  he  bite  your  ear  off  or 
only  kick  you  into  the  middle  of  next  week. 
Cussin'  a  hoss  like  that  won't  make  him  win 
races  where  he  never  had  a  chance  nohow." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Slim.  "I  know  it,  Curry, 
but  think  what  a  wonderful  relief  it  is  to  me! 
Take  a  slant  at  him,  standing  there  all  digni- 
fied up  like  a  United  States  senator!  Don't  he 
look  like  he  ought  to  know  something?  Would- 
n't you  think  he'd  know  where  they  pay  off? 
He  makes  me  sore,  and  I've  just  got  to  talk  to 
him.  I've  owned  him  a  whole  year,  and  what 
has  he  done!  Won  once  at  a  mile  and  a  quar- 
[224] 


EGYPTIAN    COEN 


ter,  and  he'd  have  been  last  that  time  if  the 
leaders  hadn't  got  in  a  jam  on  the  turn  and  fell 
down.  He  was  so  far  behind  'em  when  they 
piled  up  that  all  he  had  to  do  was  pull  wide 
and  come  on  home!  He  had  sense  enough  for 
that.  IVe  started  him  in  all  the  distance  races 
on  this  circuit;  he  always  runs  three  feet  to 
their  one  at  the  finish,  but  he's  never  close 
enough  up  to  make  it  count.  He  must  have 
some  notion  that  they  pay  off  the  second  time 
around,  and  it's  all  my  boy  can  do  to  stop  him 
after  he  goes  under  the  wire.  Why  won't  he 
uncork  some  of  that  stuff  where  it  will  get  us 
something!  "Why  won't  he?  I  don't  know,  and 
that 's  what  gets  me. ' ' 

Old  Man  Curry  rose,  threw  away  his  straw, 
and  circled  the  horse  three  times,  muttering 
to  himself.  This  was  purely  an  exhibition  of 
strategy,  for  Curry  knew  all  about  Pharaoh: 
had  known  all  about  him  for  months. 

" What '11  you  take  for  him?"  The  question 
came  so  suddenly  that  it  caught  Slim  off  his 
balance. 

"Take  for  him!"  he  ejaculated.  "Who 
wants  an  old  hammer-head  like  that?" 

"I  was  thinkin'  I  might  buy  him,"  was  the 
quiet  reply,  "if  the  price  is  right.  I  dunno's 
a  hoss  named  Pharaoh  would  fit  in  with  a  stable 
of  Hebrew  prophets,  'count  of  the  way  Pharaoh 
used  Moses  and  the  Isrulites,  but  I  might  take 
a  chance  on  him — if  the  price  is  right." 

Now,  Slim  would  have  traded  Pharaoh  for  a 
[225] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


nose  bag  or  a  sack  of  shorts  and  reckoned  the 
intake  pure  gain,  but  he  was  a  horseman,  and 
it  naturally  follows  that  he  was  a  trader. 

< ' Well,  now,"  said  he,  "I  hadn't  thought  of 
selling  him,  Curry,  and  that's  a  fact." 

"Did  anybody  but  me  ever  think  of  buyin' 
him?"  asked  the  old  man  innocently. 

"He's  got  a  wonderful  breeding,"  said  Slim, 
ignoring  the  question.  "Yes,  sir;  he's  out  of 
the  purple,  sure  enough,  and  as  for  age  he's 
just  in  his  prime.  There's  a  lot  of  racing  in 
him  yet.  Make  me  an  offer. ' ' 

"You  don't  want  me  to  talk  first,  do  you? 
I  don't  reckon  I  could  make  a  real  offer  on  a 
hoss  that  never  wins  'less  all  the  others  fall 
down.  Pharaoh  ain't  what  you  might  call  a 
first-class  buy.  From  his  looks  it  costs  a  lot 
to  keep  him." 

"Not  near  as  much  as  you'd  think,"  was  the 
quick  rejoinder.  "Pharaoh's  a  dainty  feeder." 

"Ah,  hah,"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  stroking  his 
beard.  "About  as  dainty  as  one  of  them  per- 
petual hay  presses!  That  nigh  foreleg  of  his 
has  been  stove  up  pretty  bad  too.  How  he  runs 
on  it  at  all  beats  me." 

"He's  sound  as  a  nut!"  declared  Slim  ve- 
hemently. "There  ain't  a  thing  in  the  world 
the  matter  with  him.  Ask  any  vet  to  look  him 
over!" 

"Well,  Slim,  I  dunno's  he's  worth  the  ex- 
pense. Come  on,  now;  tell  me  what's  the  least 
you'll  take  for  him?" 

[226] 


EGYPTIAN 


"Five  hundred  dollar s." 

"Give  you  a  hundred  and  fifty  cash." 

"Say,  do  you  want  me  to  make  you  a  present 
of  him  f ' '  demanded  Slim,  indignantly  sarcastic. 
"Maybe  you  think  I'd  ought  to  throw  in  a  hal- 
ter so's  you  can  lead  him  away!" 

"No,"  said  Old  Man  Curry.  "I  won't  in- 
sist on  a  halter.  I  got  plenty  of  my  own.  You 
said  yourself  he  wa'n't  no  good  and  I  thought 
you  meant  it.  I  was  just  askin'  if  you'd  sell 
him;  that  was  all.  Keep  him  till  Judgment 
Day,  if  you  want  him.  No  harm  done."  Old 
Man  Curry  began  to  walk  away. 

"Hold  on  a  minute!"  said  Slim,  trying  hard 
to  keep  the  anxious  note  out  of  his  voice.  "Be 
reasonable,  old-timer.  Make  me  an  offer  for 
the  horse :  one  that  a  sensible  man  can  accept. ' ' 

Old  Man  Curry  paused  and  glanced  over  his 
shoulder. 

"Why,"  said  he,  faintly  surprised,  "I  kind 
of  thought  I'd  done  that  a 'ready!" 

"Look  at  him ! ' '  urged  Slim.  i  '  Did  you  ever 
see  a  more  powerful  horse  in  your  life?  And 
smart  too.  A  hundred  and  fifty  dollars!  One 
side  of  him  is  worth  more  than  that ! ' ' 

"Likely  it  is,"  agreed  the  old  man  solemnly. 
' '  Seems  to  me  I  saw  a  piece  in  the  paper  'bout 
a  cannery  where  they  was  goin'  to  put  up  hoss- 
flesh!" 

"I  admit  he's  had  a  lot  of  bad  luck,"  per- 
sisted Slim,  "but  get  Pharaoh  warmed  up  once 
[227] 


OLD    MAN    CUEKY 


and  he'll  surprise  you.  Didn't  you  see  how 
fast  he  was  coming  to-day ? ' ' 

"The  numbers  was  up  before  he  got  in,"  was 
the  dry  response.  "What's  the  good  of  a  hoss 
that  won't  begin  to  run  until  the  race  is  over? 
You  said  yourself  he  only  won  for  you  when 
all  the  others  fell  down.  It's  kind  of  difficult 
to  frame  up  races  that  way.  Jockeys  hate  to 
take  the  chances.  Will  two  hundred  buy  him? 
Two 'hundred,  right  in  your  hand?" 

"Oh,  come  over  here  and  set  down!"  said 
Slim.  "You  ain't  in  any  hurry,  are  you? 
Nothing  you've  said  yet  interests  me.  On  the 
level,  you  ain't  got  a  suspicion  of  what  a  good 
horse  this  is ! " 

"No,  but  I  kind  of  suspicion  what  a  bad  hoss 
he  is."  Old  Man  Curry  resumed  his  seat  on 
the  bale  of  hay  and  produced  his  packet  of 
fine-cut  tobacco.  "You  tell  me  how  good  he 
is,"  said  he,  "and  I'll  listen,  but  before  you 
open  up  here 's  what  Solomon  says :  '  The  sim- 
ple believeth  every  word,  but  the  prudent  man 
looketh  well  to  his  going/  Hoss  tradin'  is  no 
job  for  a  simple  man,  but  I  made  a  livin'  at  it 
before  you  was  born.  Now  fire  away,  and  don 't 
tell  me  this  Pharaoh  is  a  gift.  *  Whoso  boasteth 
himself  of  a  false  gift  is  like  clouds  and  wind 
without  rain. '  I  reckon  Solomon  meant  mostly 
wind.  Now  you  can  cut  loose  an'  tell  me  how 
much  hoss  this  is." 

Two  hours  later  Old  Man  Curry  arrived  at 
his  barn  leading  Pharaoh.  He  had  acquired  the 
[228] 


EGYPTIAN    COKN 


hammer-head  for  the  sum  of  $265  and  Slim  had 
thrown  in  the  halter.  Shanghai,  Curry's  host- 
ler and  handy  man,  stared  at  the  new  member 
of  the  racing  string  with  open-mouthed  and 
pop-eyed  amazement. 

"Lawd's  sake!    What  is  that,  a  cam-u-el?" 

"No,  I  don't  reckon  he's  a  camel,  exactly," 
replied  the  old  man.  "I  don't  know  just  what 
he  is,  Shanghai,  but  I'm  aimin'  to  find  out 
soon.  The  man  I  got  him  from  allowed  as  he 
was  a  race  hoss." 

"Huh-uh,  kunnel!  He  sutny  don'  ree'semble 
no  runnin'  hawss  to  me.  I  neveh  yet  see  a  head 
shape'  like  that  on  anything  whut  could  run." 
Shanghai  came  closer  and  examined  the  equine 
stranger  carefully.  "Yo'  an  ugly  brute,  big 
hawss:  ugly  no  name  faw  it.  Oh-oh,  kunnel; 
he  got  a  knowin'  eye,  ain't  he?  If  this  hawss 
is  wise  as  he  look,  he  ought  to  be  a  judge  in  the 
Soopreme  Cote!  Yes,  suh;  somepin'  besides 
bone  in  that  ole  hammeh-head ! " 

"I  bought  him  for  his  eyes,"  said  Old  Man 
Curry.  "His  eyes  and  his  name.  This  is  Pha- 
raoh, Shanghai." 

"Faro,  eh?"  The  negro  chuckled.  "Thass 
a  game  where  yo'  gits  action  two  ways:  bet  it 
is  or  it  ain't.  Now,  mebbe  this  yere  Faro  is  a 
race  hawss,  an'  mebbe  he  ain't,  but  if  yo'  eveh 
puts  him  in  with  early  speed  an'  a  short  dis- 
tance to  go,  betteh  play  him  with  a  copper,  kun- 
nel. He  got  same  chance  as  a  eagle  flyin'  a 
mile  'gainst  pigeons." 

[229] 


OLD  MAN    CURRY 


"The  thing  to  do,"  said  Old  Man  Curry  with 
his  kindly  smile,  "is  to  find  out  the  eagle's  dis- 
tance." 

Little  Mose  was  dreaming  that  he  had  piloted 
the  winner  of  the  Burns  Handicap  and  was  be- 
ing carried  to  the  jockey's  room  in  a  floral 
horseshoe  which  rocked  in  a  very  violent  man- 
ner. The  motion  became  so  pronounced  that 
Mose  opened  his  eyes,  and  found  Old  Man 
Curry  shaking  him. 

"Get  up,  you  lazy  little  rascal!  Got  a  job 
for  you  this  mornin'.  Turn  out!" 

The  jockey  sat  up,  yawning  and  knuckling 
his  eyes. 

"Solomon  must  have  had  at  least  one  little 
black  boy,"  said  the  old  man.  "  'Love  not 
sleep  lest  thou  come  to  poverty.'  Hurry  up, 
Mose!" 

"Yes,  suh,"  mumbled  the  drowsy  youngster. 
"Beckon  Sol'mun  neveh  had  to  gallop  a  string 
an'  ride  'em  too.  I  sutny  earns  whut  I  gits 
when  I  git  it." 

Dawn  was  breaking  when  Jockey  Moseby 
Jones  emerged  from  the  tack  room  to  find  Old 
Man  Curry  and  Pharaoh  waiting  for  him.  As 
they  were  walking  to  the  track  the  owner  gave 
his  orders. 

"One  trouble  with  this  hoss,"  said  he,  "is 
that  the  boy  who  has  been  ridin'  him  wasn't 
strong  enough  in  the  arms  to  keep  his  head 
up." 

"That  oP  hawss  has  got  a  head  whut  weighs 
[230] 


EGYPTIAN    CORN 


a  thousan'  pounds!"  murmured  Mose  sulkily. 
"  'Spect  he'll  'bout  yank  both  arms  outen  me !" 

"You're  pretty  stout  for  a  boy  your  size," 
said  the  old  man,  "an'  you  may  be  able  to  hold 
this  big,  hard-stridin'  hoss  together  an'  shake 
something  out  of  him.  Send  him  two  miles, 
Mose,  keep  his  head  up  if  you  can,  an'  ride 
him  every  jump  of  the  way." 

"But,  boss,  they  ain't  no  two-mile  races  in 
thisyer  part  o'  the  country!" 

"Keep  on,  an'  you'll  talk  yourself  into  a  raw- 
hidin'  yet,  little  black  boy.  I  ain't  askin'  you 
to  tell  me  'bout  the  races  on  the  jungle  tracks. 
All  you  got  to  think  about  is  can  you  handle  as 
much  hoss  as  this  over  a  distance  of  ground. 
If  you  can,  an'  he's  got  the  stayin'  qualities  I 
think  he  has,  you  an'  me  an'  Pharaoh  may  go 
on  a  long  journey — down  into  Egypt  after  corn. 
Git  up  on  him,  Mose,  an'  let's  see  what  you 
both  can  do. " 

The  hammer-head  loafed  away  at  a  comfort- 
able stride  and  his  first  mile  showed  nothing, 
but  his  second  circuit  of  the  track  was  a  revela- 
tion which  caused  Old  Man  Curry  to  address 
remarks  to  his  stop  watch.  It  took  every  ounce 
of  Mose's  strength  to  fight  Pharaoh  to  a  stand- 
still: the  big  brute  was  just  beginning  to  en- 
joy the  exercise  and  wanted  to  keep  on  going. 

"Well,  think  you  can  handle  him?" 

"Boss,"  panted  little  Mose,  "I  kin  do — 
everything  to  thisyer  hoss — but  stop  him.  He 
sutny — do  love  to  run — once  he  git  goin'.  All 
[231] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


the  way — down  the  stretch — he  was  asayin' 
to  me:  'Come  on,  jock!  Lemme  go  round 
again !'  Yes,  suh,  he  was  beggin'  me  faw  'noth- 
ehmile!" 

"Ah-hah,"  said  Old  Man  Curry.  "That's 
the  way  it  looked  to  me.  Well,  to-morrow  we'll 
let  him  do  that  extra  mile,  but  we'll  get  up  ear- 
lier. By  an'  by  when  he's  ready,  we'll  let  him 
run  four  miles  an'  see  how  he  finishes  an'  what 
the  watch  says. ' ' 

Little  Mose  rolled  his  eyes  thoughtfully. 

"Seem  like  I  ain't  heard  tell  of  but  one  fV- 
mile  race,"  he  hinted.  "  'Tain't  run  in  Egypt 
neitheh.  They  runs  it  down  round  'Frisco. 
The  Thawntum  Stakes  is  whut  they  calls  it. 
Boss,  you  reckon  Pharaoh  kin  pick  up  any 
corn  in  California?" 

Old  Man  Curry's  eyes  twinkled,  but  his  voice 
was  stern. 

"If  I  was  a  little  black  boy,"  said  he,  "an' 
I  was  wantin'  my  boss  to  take  me  on  a  trip 
down  into  Egypt,  I  wouldn't  call  it  California. 
If  I  knew  anything  'bout  a  four-mile  stake  race, 
I'd  try  to  mislay  the  name  of  it.  If  I  had  been 
ridin'  a  big,  hammer-headed  hoss,  I  don't  think 
I'd  mention  him  except  in  my  prayers.  If  I  was 
goin'  after  corn,  I  don't  believe  I'd  say  so." 

Mose  listened,  nodding  from  time  to  time. 

"Boss,"  said  he  earnestly,  "I  sutny  always 

did  want  to  see  whut  thisyer  Egypt  looks  like. 

Outside  of  that,  I  neveh  heard  nothin',  I  don't 

know  nothin',  an'  I  can't  tell  nothin'.    Begin- 

[232] 


EGYPTIAN    CORN 


nin'  now,  a  clam  has  got  me  beat  in  a  talkiri' 
match!" 

Old  Man  Curry  smiled  and  combed  his  long, 
white  beard. 

"That  is  the  very  best  way,"  said  he,  "to 
earn  a  trip  down  into  Egypt.  '  A  talebearer  re- 
vealeth  secrets,  but  he  that  is  of  a  faithful  spirit 
concealeth  the  matter.' 

"Thass  me  all  oveh!"  chuckled  Mose.  "I 
bet  I  got  the  faithfulest  an'  the  concealin'est 
spirit  whut  is!" 

Port  Costa  is  a  small  town  on  the  Carquinez 
Straits,  that  narrow  ribbon  of  wind-swept 
water  between  San  Pablo  and  Suisun  Bays. 
The  early  empire  builders,  striving  to  reach 
the  Pacific  by  rail,  found  it  necessary  to  cross 
the  Carquinez  Straits,  and  to  that  end  built  a 
huge  ferryboat  capable  of  swallowing  up  long 
overland  trains.  It  was  then  that  Port  Costa 
came  into  being:  a  huddle  of  hastily  construct- 
ed frame  saloons  along  the  water  front  and 
very  little  else.  All  day  and  all  night  the  big 
ferry-boat  plied  between  Benicia  and  Port 
Costa,  transferring  rolling  stock.  While  the 
trains  were  being  made  up  on  the  Port  Costa 
side  passengers  in  need  of  liquid  sustenance 
paid  visits  to  the  saloons.  They  got  exactly 
what  the  transient  may  expect  in  any  country. 

Henry  Ashbaugh  sat  at  a  table  in  Martin 
Dugan's  place  and  eyed  the  bartender  trucu- 
lently. He  had  purchased  nothing,  for  the 
[233] 


OLD    MAN    CUBBY 


most  excellent  of  reasons,  but  he  had  patron- 
ised the  free  lunch  extensively. 

"You  don't  need  to  look  at  me  like  that," 
said  Henry  when  the  silence  became  unbearable. 
"I'm  waiting  for  a  friend  and  when  he  comes 
he '11  buy." 

At  this  critical  juncture  the  swinging  doors 
opened  to  admit  the  friend,  a  tall,  elderly  man 
with  a  patriarchal  white  beard,  clad  in  a  bat- 
tered black  slouch  hat  and  a  venerable  frock 
coat.  Ashbaugh  jumped  up  with  a  yell. 

"Well,  you  old  son  of  a  gun!  It's  good  for 
sore  eyes  to  see  you !  How  long  has  it'  been, 
eh?" 

"Quite  some  years,"  answered  Old  Man 
Curry,  allowing  himself  to  be  guided  to  the 
bar.  "And  how's  the  world  been  usin'  you, 
Henry?" 

"It's  been  using  me  rough,  awful  rough," 
replied  Ashbaugh.  "I  ain't  even  got  the  price 
of  a  drink." 

Curry  laid  a  silver  coin  upon  the  bar. 

"Have  one  with  me,"  said  he. 

"Don't  mind  if  I  do,"  said  Ashbaugh,  and 
poured  out  a  stiff  libation  of  water-front 
whisky.  Old  Man  Curry  took  water,  and  the 
wise  bartender,  after  one  look  at  the  stranger, 
drew  it  from  a  faucet. 

"How!"  said  Henry,  tilting  the  poison  into 
his  system. 

"My  regards!"  said  Old  Man  Curry,  sipping 
his  water  slowly. 

[234] 


EGYPTIAN    COKN 


"Same  old  bird!"  ejaculated  Ashbaugh,  clap- 
ping Curry  on  the  back.  "Solomon  on  the 
brain !  Speaking  of  birds,  though,  did  you  ever 
see  one  that  could  fly  with  only  one  wing?" 

"I  never  did,"  was  the  grave  response. 
"Have  another?" 

"If  you  force  me,"  said  Ashbaugh,  pouring 
out  a  second  heavy  dose.  Old  Man  Curry  took 
more  water.  Ashbaugh  gulped  once  and  passed 
the  back  of  his  hand  over  his  lips. 

"We  have  talked  of  birds,"  said  he,  whee- 
dlingly.  "Leave  us  now  talk  of  centipedes." 

"No,"  said  Curry  quietly.  "No,  I  reckon 
not,  Henry.  There's  something  else  to  talk 
about.  You  got  my  telegram?" 

"This  afternoon,"  said  Ashbaugh  with  a 
lingering  glance  at  the  bottle.  "That's  why 
I'm  here." 

"You've  still  got  your  place  out  on  the  Mar- 
tinez road?"  asked  Old  Man  Curry. 

"I  can't  get  rid  of  it,"  was  the  answer. 

"I'd  like  to  take  a  hoss  down  there  and  put 
him  up  for  a  few  weeks,  Henry." 

"The  place  is  all  yours!"  said  Ashbaugh 
with  wide  gestures.  "All  yours!  A  friend  of 
mine  can  have  anything  I've  got,  and  no  ques- 
tions asked.  Where  is  this  here  horse?" 

"They'll  be  takin'  him  out  of  a  freight  car 
about  now,"  said  Curry.  "Could  I  git  him 
down  to  your  place  to-night?" 

"You  can  if  you  walk  it." 

"Is  the  road  as  good  as  it  used  to  be?" 
[235] 


OLD    MAN    CUKEY 


"Same  road.  Just  like  it  was  when  you 
used  to  train  horses  on  it." 

"Mebbe  we  ought  to  be  going,"  suggested 
Old  Man  Curry. 

"Then  you  won't  talk  about  centipedes?" 

"Oh,  well,"  smiled  the  old  man,  "I  might 
discuss  a  three-legged  critter  with  you — 
once. ' ' 

"Put  that  bottle  back  on  the  bar!"  said  Ash- 
baugh. 

The  overnight  entry  slips,  given  out  on  the 
day  before  the  running  of  the  Thornton  Stakes, 
bore  the  name  of  the  horse  Pharaoh,  together 
with  that  of  his  owner,  C.  T.  Curry,  whereat 
the  wise  men  of  the  West  chuckled.  A  few  of 
them  had  heard  of  Old  Man  Curry,  a  queer, 
harmless  individual  who  owned  bad  horses  and 
raced  them  on  worse  tracks.  A  hasty  survey 
of  turf  guides  brought  the  horse  Pharaoh  to  un- 
favourable light  as  a  nonwinner  in  cheap  com- 
pany, and  in  no  sense  to  be  considered  as  a  com- 
petitor in  the  second  greatest  of  Western  turf 
classics.  In  addition  to  this,  those  who  made 
it  their  business  to  know  the  business  of  horse- 
men were  able  to  state  positively  that  no  such 
horse  as  Pharaoh  had  arrived  at  the  Emeryville 
track  outside  of  Oakland.  Consequently,  when 
the  figuring  was  done  (and  a  great  deal  of 
figuring  is  always  done  on  the  eve  of  an  im- 
portant stake  race),  the  Curry  entry  was  re- 
garded as  among  the  scratches. 

On  paper,  the  rich  purse  was  a  gift  to  the 
[236] 


EGYPTIAN    COKN 


imported  mare  Auckland.  Australian  horses, 
bred  to  go  a  distance,  had  often  won  this  long- 
est of  American  stakes,  and  Auckland  was 
known  to  be  one  of  the  very  best  animals  ever 
brought  across  the  Pacific.  It  was  only  a  ques- 
tion of  how  far  she  would  win,  and  the  others 
were  considered  as  competing  for  second  and 
third  money.  On  the  night  before  the  race  all 
the  talk  was  of  Auckland;  all  the  speculation 
had  to  do  with  her  price,  and  how  many  dollars 
a  man  might  have  to  bet  to  win  one.  At  noon 
on  the  day  of  the  race  a  horse  car  was  shunted 
in  on  one  of  the  spur  tracks  at  Emeryville,  and 
a  group  of  idlers  gathered  to  watch  the  unload- 
ing process.  No  little  amusement  was  afforded 
them  by  the  appearance  and  costume  of  the 
owner,  but  Old  Man  Curry  paid  not  the  slight- 
est attention  to  the  half-audible  comment,  and 
soon  the  "  Bible  horses "  found  their  feet  on 
the  ground  once  more. 

Among  the  loafers  were  some  "  out  side 
[men"  employed  by  the  bookmakers,  and  these 
endeavoured  to  acquire  information  from  Old 
Man  Curry,  without  success.  The  negro  Shang- 
hai proved  more  loquacious.  He  trudged  at 
the  end  of  the  line  leading  a  big  hammer-headed 
brute  which  he  often  addressed  as  "Faro." 

"Who  owns  these  hawsses?"  repeated  Shang- 
hai. "Mist'  Curry — thass  him  in  front — he 
owns  'em.  We  got  here  jus'  in  time,  I  reckon. 
Thisyer  hawss  whut  I'm  leadLi',  he  goes  in 
that  Thawntum  Stakes  to-day." 
[237] 


OLD   MAN    CUEKY 


"Nix!"  said  the  outside  man.  "Just  off  the 
cars,  and  he's  going  to  start?  It  can't  be 
done!" 

"I  ain't  heard  the  boss  say  he'd  scratch 
him,"  said  Shanghai. 

"But  how  long  have  you  been  on  the  way?" 

"Oh,  I  reckon  'bout  five  days.  Yes,  suh;  we 
been  exackly  five  days  an'  nights  gettin'  here." 

"Then  you're  kidding  about  that  horse  going 
to  start  in  the  Thornton  Stakes." 

"No,  suh;  I  ain't  kiddin'  nobody.  Thass 
whut  we  brought  him  oveh  f aw :  to  staht  him  in 
them  Thawntum  Stakes.  I  reckon  he'll  have  to 
do  the  bes'  he  know  how." 

"Are  you  going  to  bet  on  him?" 

"Says  which?"  Shanghai  showed  a  double 
row  of  glistening  ivories.  "No,  indeedy! 
Hawss  got  to  show  me  befo'  I  leggo  my  small 
change!  This  Faro,  he  can't  seem  to  win  no 
mile  races,  so  the  boss  he  thinks  he  might  do 
betteh  in  a  long  one.  But  me,  I  ain't  bettin'  on 
him,  no  suh!" 

Only  five  horses  faced  the  barrier  in  the 
Thornton  Stakes.  Second  money  was  not 
enough  of  a  temptation  to  the  owners,  who  could 
see  nothing  but  the  Australian  mare,  Auckland. 
The  opening  prices  bore  out  this  belief.  Auck- 
land was  quoted  at  1  to  5,  a  prohibitive  figure ; 
Baron  Brant,  the  hope  of  the  California  con- 
tingent, at  4  to  1;  The  Maori  at  8  to  1;  Am- 
brose Churchill  at  12  to  1,  and  Pharaoh  was 
held  at  15  and  20.  The  bookmakers  had  heard 
[238] 


EGYPTIAN    COEN 


that  the  Curry  horse  had  been  taken  from  the 
car  at  noon,  and  wondered  at  the  obstinacy  of 
his  owner  in  starting  him,  stiff  and  cramped 
from  a  long  railroad  journey. 

i '  Must  be  figuring  to  give  him  a  workout  and 
a  race  all  at  once,"  said  the  chalk  merchants. 

All  these  things  being  known,  a  certain  elder- 
ly gentleman  did  not  have  to  beg  the  bookmak- 
ers to  take  his  money.  He  passed  from  block 
to  block  in  the  big  ring,  stripping  small  bills 
from  a  fat  roll,  and  receiving  pasteboards  in 
exchange.  Bound  and  round  the  ring  he  went, 
with  his  monotonous  request : 

"Ten  on  Pharaoh  to  win,  please." 

Every  bookmaker  was  glad  to  oblige  him; 
most  of  them  thanked  him  for  the  ten-dollar 
bills.  There  were  thirty-two  books  in  the  circle, 
and  Old  Man  Curry  visited  each  one  of  them 
several  times.  He  stopped  betting  only  when 
he  heard  the  saddling  bell  ringing  in  the  pad- 
dock. After  a  few  words  with  Little  Mose,  he 
returned  to  the  betting  ring  and  the  distribu- 
tion of  his  favours. 

When  the  five  horses  stood  at  the  barrier  in 
front  of  the  grand  stand,  Pharaoh  was  con- 
spicuous only  for  his  size  and  the  colour  of  his 
rider.  The  mare  Auckland,  beautifully  pro- 
portioned, her  smooth  coat  glistening  in  the 
sun,  was  the  ideal  racing  animal. 

The  word  was  soon  given,  the  barrier  whizzed 
into  the  air,  and  the  five  horses  were  on  their 
long  journey.  The  boy  on  Auckland  sent  her  to 
[239] 


OLD    MAN    CUKEY 


the  front  at  once,  and  the  mare  settled  into  her 
long,  easy  stride,  close  to  the  rail,  saving  every 
possible  inch.  Pharaoh  immediately  dropped 
into  last  position,  plodding  through  the  dust 
kicked  up  by  the  field.  The  big  hammer-head 
showed  nothing  in  the  first  mile  save  dogged 
persistence.  At  the  end  of  the  second  mile 
Auckland  was  twenty  lengths  in  front  of  Pha- 
raoh, and  running  without  effort.  The  Maori 
and  Ambrose  Churchill  were  beginning  to  drop 
back,  but  Baron  Brant  still  clung  to  second 
place,  ten  lengths  behind  the  favourite. 

It  was  in  the  third  mile  that  Jockey  Moseby 
Jones  began  to  urge  the  big  horse.  At  first 
there  seemed  to  be  no  result,  but  gradually,  al- 
most imperceptibly,  the  heavy  plugging  stride 
grew  longer.  Auckland  still  held  her  command- 
ing lead,  but  Pharaoh  marked  his  gain  on  Am- 
brose Churchill  and  The  Maori,  leaving  them  a 
bitter  and  hopeless  battle  for  fourth  place.  In 
the  home  stretch  the  pace  began  to  tell  on  Baron 
Brant,  and  he  faded.  Pharaoh  caught  and 
passed  him  just  at  the  wire,  with  the  Australian 
mare  fifteen  lengths  in  front  and  eating  up  the 
distance  in  smooth,  easy  strides. 

The  stubborn  persistence  of  the  hammer- 
headed  horse  had  not  escaped  the  crowd,  and 
those  who  support  the  underdog  in  an  uphill 
fight  gave  him  a  tremendous  cheer  as  he  swung 
down  to  the  turn.  It  was  then  that  Little  Mose 
leaned  forward  and  began  hand-riding,  calling 
on  Pharaoh  in  language  sacred  and  profane. 
[240] 


EGYPTIAN    COKN 


"Hump  yo'self,  big  hawss!  Neveh  let  it  be 
said  that  a  mare  kin  make  you  eat  dust !  Lay 
down  to  it,  Faro,  lay  down  to  it!  Why,  you 
ain't  begun  to  run  yit!  You  jus'  been  foolin'! 
You  want  to  show  me  up  befo'  a  big  town 
crowd?  Faro,  I  ast  you  from  my  heart,  lay 
down  to  it!" 

And  Pharaoh  lay  down  to  it.  The  ugly  big 
brute  let  himself  out  to  the  last  notch,  hugging 
the  rail  with  long,  ungainly  strides.  The  jockey 
on  Auckland  had  counted  the  race  as  won — in 
fact,  he  had  been  spending  the  winner's  fee 
from  the  end  of  the  second  mile — but  on  the 
upper  turn  the  thud  of  hoofs  came  to  his  ears, 
and  with  them  wild  whoops  of  encouragement. 
He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  in  surprise 
which  soon  turned  to  alarm;  the  big  hammer- 
head  was  barely  six  lengths  away  and  drawing 
nearer  with  every  awkward  bound.  Jockey 
McFee  sat  down  on  his  imported  mount  and 
began  to  ride  for  a  five-thousand-dollar  stake,  a 
fat  fee,  his  reputation,  and  several  other  con- 
siderations, but  always  he  heard  the  voice  of  the 
little  negro,  coming  closer  and  closer: 

"Corn  crop  'bout  ripe,  Faro!  Jus'  waitin' 
to  be  picked !  That  mare,  she  come  a  long  ways 
to  git  it,  but  she  goin'  git  it  good!  Them  rib- 
bons don't  keep  her  f'um  rockin';  she's  all 
through !  Go  git  her,  big  hawss !  Go  git  her ! ' ' 

Jockey  McFee  slashed  desperately  with  his 
whip  as  Pharaoh  thundered  alongside,  and  the 
game  mare  gave  up  her  last  ounce:  gave  it  up 
[241] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


in  a  losing  fight.  Once,  twice,  the  ugly,  heavy 
head  and  the  head  of  the  equine  aristocrat  rose 
and  fell  side  by  side;  then  Auckland  dropped 
back  beaten  and  broken-hearted  while  her  con- 
queror pounded  on  to  the  wire,  to  win  by  five 
open  lengths.  .  .  . 

At  least  one  dream  came  true.  Moseby  Jones 
was  carried  off  the  track  in  a  gorgeous  floral 
horseshoe,  his  woolly  head  bobbing  among  the 
roses  and  his  teeth  putting  the  white  carnations 
to  shame.  Shanghai  danced  all  the  way  from 
the  judges'  stand  to  the  stables,  not  an  easy 
feat  when  one  considers  that  he  was  leading  the 
winner  of  the  Thornton  Stakes,  also  garlanded 
and  bedecked  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  but,  in 
spite  of  all  his  floral  decorations,  extremely 
dignified. 

Old  Man  Curry  fought  his  way  through  a  mob 
of  reporters  and  fair-weather  acquaintances  to 
find  himself  face  to  face  with  the  only  real  sur- 
prise of  the  day.  A  sharp-faced  youth,  immac- 
ulately dressed,  leaped  upon  him,  endeavouring 
to  embrace  him,  shake  his  hand  and  congratu- 
late him,  all  in  a  breath.  "  Frank !"  cried  the 
old  man.  "  Bless  your  heart,  boy,  where  did 
you  come  from?" 

"From  Butte,"  answered  the  Bald-faced  Kid. 
"  Wanted  to  get  some  ideas  on  the  spring  trade ; 
saw  you  had  a  horse  in  the  Thornton  Stakes; 
thought  I  might  find  you;  got  here  just  as  the 
race  finished.  Old-timer,  how  are  you!  You 
don't  know  how  good  it  is  to  see  you  again  I" 
[242] 


EGYPTIAN    CORN 


"I  know  how  good  it  is  to  see  you,  my  son!" 
The  old  man  laid  his  arm  across  the  youth's 
shoulders.  " How's  the  wife,  Frank?" 

" Just  bully!  She  would  have  been  here  with 
me,  but  she  couldn't  leave  the  kid:  couldn't 
leave  Curry " 

The  patriarch  of  the  Jungle  Circuit  reached 
hastily  for  his  fine-cut. 

"It — it  was  a  boy,  then!"  he  asked. 

The  Bald-faced  Kid  grinned. 

" Better  than  that;  it  was  a  girl!  We  had 
the  name  picked  out  in  advance.  The  wife 
wouldn't  have  it  any  other  way." 

Old  Man  Curry  shook  his  head  solemnly. 
"Frank,"  said  he,  "you  know  that  ain't  treat- 
in'  a  little  girl  right !  Curry !  It  sounds  like  the 
stuff  you  eat  with  rice!  When  she  gits  old 
enough  to  know  she'll  hate  it,  and  me,  too." 

"Any  kid  of  mine  is  going  to  love  the  name 
of  Curry,  and  call  you  grandpa !  What  do  you 
think  of  that?  You  don't  need  to  worry,  and  I 
won't  even  argue  the  point  with  you.  My  wife 
says " 

"Anything  your  wife  says  is  right,"  inter- 
rupted the  old  man,  blowing  his  nose  lustily. 
"Why,  it  kind  of  seems  as  if  I  had  some 
folks " 

"If  you  don't  think  you've  got  a  ready-made 
family,"  said  the  Kid,  "come  over  to  Butte 
any  time  and  I'll  win  a  bet  from  you.  But  I 
can  tell  you  about  that  later.  What  I  want  to 
know  is  this :  I  met  a  couple  of  hustlers  here 
[243] 


OLD  MAN   CUBBY 


to-day — boys  I  used  to  team  with — and  they 
told  me  Pharaoh  didn't  have  a  chance  because 
he  went  right  from  the  box  car  to  the  paddock. 
He  gets  off  the  train,  where  he's  been  for  five 
days  and  nights,  and  comes  so  close  to  the 
American  record  that  there  ain't  any  fun  in 
it.  Now,  you  know  that  can't  be  done.  Old- 
timer,  you  pulled  many  a  miracle  on  me  before 
I  quit  the  turf;  give  me  an  inside  on  this  one!" 

Old  Man  Curry  smiled  benignantly. 

"Well,  son,  mebbe  I  kind  of  took  advantage 
of  'em  there." 

"It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time,  dad.  Let's 
have  it." 

"All  right.  To  start  with,  I  bought  this  hoss 
for  little  or  nothing.  Mostly  nothing.  I  knew 
he  was  a  freak.  He  couldn't  begin  to  untrack 
himself  till  he  had  gone  a  mile,  but  after  that  it 
seemed  like  every  mile  he  went  he  got  better. 
I  held  a  watch  on  him  an'  he  ran  four  miles 
close  enough  to  the  record  to  show  me  that  he 
had  a  chance  in  the  Thornton  Stakes.  Five 
weeks  ago  I  shipped  him  out  to  Port  Costa  an' 
took  him  off  the  train  there " 

*  '  Holy  Moses ! ' '  breathed  the  Kid.  '  '  I  begin 
to  get  it,  but  go  on!" 

"I  knew  a  man  there  an'  he  let  me  train 
Pharaoh  at  his  place,  Little  Mose  givin'  him  a 
gallop  every  day.  That  Benicia  road  is  as  good 
as  any  race  track.  Then  I  did  some  close  fig- 
gerin'  on  freight  schedules,  an'  telegraphed 
Shanghai  when  to  leave  with  the  rest  of  the 
[244] 


EGYPTIAN    CORN 


stable.  They  got  into  Port  Costa  this  mornin'. 
It  wa'n't  no  trick  at  all  to  slip  Pharaoh  into 
that  through  car — not  when  you  know  the  right 
people — an*  when  we  unloaded  here  this  noon 
the  word  sort  of  got  scattered  round  that  the 
Curry  hosses  had  been  five  days  on  the  road. 
Now,  no  man  with  the  sense  that  God  gives  a 
goose  could  figger  a  critter  to  walk  out  of  a 
box  car,  where  he'd  been  bumped  an'  jolted  an' 
shook  up  for  five  days,  an'  run  four  miles  with 
any  kind  of  hosses.  It  just  ain't  in  the  book, 
son. 

"They  got  the  notion  I  was  crazy,  an'  I 
reckon  they  knew  everything  about  us  but  the 
one  thing  that  counted  most,  which  was  that 
Pharaoh  hadn't  been  in  that  car  an  hour  all 
told.  You  know,  when  you  go  down  into  Egypt 
after  corn,  you  got  to  do  as  the  Egyptians  do : 
have  an  ace  in  the  hole  all  the  time.  Solomon 
says  that  a  fool  uttereth  all  his  mind,  but  a  wise 
man  keepeth  it  till  afterward.  That's  why  I'm 
gassin'  so  much  now,  I  reckon." 

"Old-timer,"  chuckled  the  Kid,  "you're  a 
wonder,  and  I'm  proud  to  have  a  kid  named 
for  you!  Just  one  question  more,  and  I'm 
through.  You  won  the  stake,  and  that  amounts 
to  quite  a  mess  of  money,  but  did  you  bet 
enough  to  pay  the  freight  on  the  string!" 

"Well,  now,  son,"  said  the  old  man;  "I  been 

so  glad  to  see  you  that  I  kind  of  forgot  that 

part  of  it."    He  fumbled  in  the  tail  pockets  of 

his  rusty  black  frock  coat  and  brought  forth 

[245] 


OLD.  MAN    CUKEY 


great  handfuls  of  tickets.  "I  didn't  take  less'n 
15  to  1,"  said  he,  "an'  I  bet  'em  till  my  feet 
ached,  just  walkin'  from  one  book  to  another. 
I  haven't  tried  to  figger  it  up,  but  I  reckon  I 
took  more  corn  away  from  these  Egyptians 
than  the  law  allows  a  single  man  to  have.  If 
it's  all  the  same  to  you,  Frank,  an'  the  baby 
ain't  got  no  objections,  I'd  like  to  use  some  of 
this  to  start  a  savings  account  for  my  name- 
sake. Curry  ain't  no  name  for  a  baby  girl,  an' 
you  ought  to  let  me  square  it  with  her  some- 
how. Mebbe  when  she  gits  of  age,  an'  wants 
to  marry  some  harum-scarum  boy,  she  won't 
think  so  bad  of  her  gran 'daddy." 


[246] 


THE  MODERN  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 


IT  was  an  unpleasantly  warm  morning,  and 
the  thick,  black  shade  of  an  umbrella  tree 
made  queer  neighbours — as  queer  neigh- 
bours as  the  Jungle  Circuit  could  produce. 
Old  Man  Curry  found  the  shade  first  and  felt 
that  he  was  entitled  to  it  by  right  of  discovery, 
consequently  he  did  not  move  when  Henry  M. 
Pitkin  signified  an  intention  of  sharing  the  cool- 
ness with  him.    Old  Man  Curry  had  less  than 
a  bowing  acquaintance  with  Pitkin,  wished  to 
know  him  no  better,  and  had  disliked  him  from 
the  moment  he  had  first  seen  him. 

"Hot,  ain't  it?"  asked  the  newcomer  by  way 
of  making  a  little  talk.  "What  you  reading, 
Curry?" 

Old  Man  Curry  looked  up  from  the  thirteenth 
chapter  of  Proverbs,  ceased  chewing  his  straw, 
and  regarded  Pitkin  with  a  grave  and  apprais- 
ing interest  which  held  something  of  disappro- 
val, something  of  insult.    Pitkin 's  eyes  shifted. 
"It  says  here,"  remarked  the  aged  horseman, 
"  *A  righteous  man  hateth  lying:  but  a  wicked 
man  is  loathsome,  and  cometh  to  shame.'  " 
[247J 


OLD    MAN    CUKKY 


"Fair  enough,"  said  Pitkin,  "and  serves  him 
right.  He  ought  to  come  to  shame.  Pretty  hot 
for  this  time  of  year." 

"It'll  be  hotter  for  some  folks  by  and  by." 

Pitkin  laughed  noisily. 

"Where  do  you  get  that  stuff!"  he  de- 
manded. 

"I  hope  I  ain't  agoin'  to  git  it,"  said  Old 
Man  Curry.  "I  aim  to  live  so's  to  miss  it." 
He  lapsed  into  silence,  and  the  straw  began  to 
twitch  to  the  slow  grinding  motion  of  his  lower 
jaw.  A  very  stupid  man  might  have  seen  at  a 
glancu  that  Curry  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed, 
but  for  some  reason  or  other  Pitkin  felt  the 
need  of  conversation. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  he,  "that  my  rac- 
ing colours  are  too  plain — yellow  jacket,  white 
sleeves,  white  cap.  There's  so  many  yellows 
and  whites  that  people  get  'em  mixed  up.  How 
would  it  do  if  I  put  a  design  on  the  back  of  the 
jacket — something  that  would  tell  people  at  a 
glance  that  the  horse  was  from  the  Pitkin 
stable?" 

Old  Man  Curry  closed  his  book. 

"You  want  'em  to  know  which  is  your  boss- 
es?" he  asked.  ' '  Is  that  the  idee ? ' ' 

"Sure,"  answered  Pitkin.  "I  was  trying  to 
think  up  a  design  of  some  kind.  Lucky  Baldwin 
used  to  have  a  Maltese  cross.  How  would  it  do 
if  I  had  a  rooster  or  a  rising  sun  or  a  crescent 
sewed  on  to  the  back  of  the  jacket?" 
[248] 


THE   MODERN    JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

Old  Man  Curry  pretended  to  give  serious 
thought  to  the  problem. 

"Boosters  an'  risin'  suns  don't  mean  any- 
thing," said  he  judicially.  "An  emblem  ought 
to  mean  something  to  the  public — it  ought  to 
stand  for  something." 

"Yes,"  said  Pitkin,  "but  what  can  I  get  that 
will  sort  of  identify  me  and  my  horses  ? ' ' 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "mebbe  I  can  sug- 
gest a  dee-sign  that'll  fill  the  bill."  He  picked 
up  a  bit  of  shingle  and  drew  a  pencil  from  his 
pocket.  "How  would  this  do?  Two  straight 
marks  this  way,  Pitkin,  an'  two  straight  marks 
that  way — and  nobody 'd  ever  mistake  your 
hosses — nobody  that's  been  watchin'  the  way 
they  run." 

Pitkin  craned  his  neck  and  snorted  with 
wrath.  Old  Man  Curry  had  drawn  two  crosses 
side  by  side,  and  the  inference  was  plain. 

"That's  your  notion,  is  it?"  said  he,  rising. 
"Well,  one  thing  is  a  mortal  cinch,  Curry; 
you'll  never  catch  me  psalm  singing  round  a 
race  track,  and  any  time  I  want  to  preach,  I'll 
hire  a  church !  Put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke 
it!" 

"I  ain't  smokin',  thankee,  I'm  chewin'  most- 
ly," remarked  the  old  gentleman  to  Pitkin 's 
vanishing  coat  tails.  "Well,  now,  looks  like  I 
made  him  sort  of  angry.  What  is  it  that  Sol- 
omon wrote  'bout  the  anger  of  a  fool?" 

They  used  to  say  that  the  meanest  man  in  the 
world  was  the  Mean  Man  from  Maine,  but  this 
[249] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


present  occupation  seem  all  the  stranger  by 
contrast. 

Some  of  the  horsemen  of  the  Jungle  Circuit 
pretended  to  believe  that  Pitkin  kept  a  negro 
trainer  because  he  was  too  mean  to  get  along 
with  a  white  man,  but  this  was  only  partly  true. 
He  kept  Gabe  because  he  had  a  keen  apprecia- 
tion of  the  old  man's  knowledge  of  horseflesh, 
and  in  addition  to  this  Gabe  was  cheap  at  the 
price — fif ty  dollars  a  month  and  his  board,  and 
only  part  of  that  fifty  paid,  for  it  hurt  Pitkin 
to  part  with  money  under  any  circumstances. 

It  was  by  skipping  pay  days  that  he  came  to 
owe  Uncle  Gabe  the  not  unimportant  sum  of  five 
hundred  dollars,  and  it  was  by  trying  to  col- 
lect this  amount  that  the  aged  trainer  became 
also  the  owner  of  a  race  horse. 

Pitkin,  in  the  course  of  business  dealings 
with  a  small  breeding  farm,  had  picked  up  two 
bay  colts.  They  were  as  like  as  two  peas  with 
every  honest  right  to  the  resemblance,  for  they 
were  half-brothers  by  the  same  sire,  and  there 
was  barely  a  week's  difference  in  their  ages. 
Uncle  Gabe  looked  the  baby  racers  over  very 
carefully  before  giving  it  as  his  opinion  that 
no  twins  were  ever  more  alike  in  appearance. 

"They  own  mammies  would  have  a  lil 
trouble  tellin'  them  colts  apaht,"  said  the  ne- 
gro. 

"Can  you  tell  them  apart?"  asked  Pitkin. 

Gabe  grinned.  "Yes,  suh,"  he  answered. 
"They  is  a  difference." 

[252] 


THE   MODERN    JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

Pitkin  looked  at  Gabe  sharply.  He  knew  that 
the  old  negro  felt  one  colt  to  be  better  than  the 
other. 

"All  right  then,"  he  said  after  a  moment. 
"Tell  you  what  I'll  do.  You've  been  deviling 
me  for  that  five  hundred  dollars  till  I'm  sick 
of  listening  to  you.  Take  your  pick  of  the  two 
colts  and  call  it  square.  How  does  that  strike 
you?" 

Uncle  Gabe  deliberated  for  some  time.  The 
five  hundred  dollars  meant  a  great  deal  to  him, 
but  the  cash  value  of  a  debt  is  regulated  some- 
what by  the  sort  of  man  who  owes  it  and  Gabe 
realized  that  this  point  was  worthy  of  consid- 
eration. On  the  other  hand,  should  the  colt 
turn  out  well,  he  would  be  worth  several  times 
five  hundred  dollars. 

"Don't  wait  till  you  get  'em  in  training," 
said  Pitkin.  "A  blind  man  could  pick  the  best 
one  then.  Take  the  colt  that  looks  good  to  you 
now  and  let  it  go  at  that. ' ' 

That  evening  Uncle  Gabe  made  his  selection 
and  immediately  announced  that  he  intended 
to  name  his  colt  General  Duval. 

"Good  enough,"  said  Pitkin,  "and  just  to 
carry  out  the  soldier  idea,  I'll  call  the  other  one 
Sergeant  Smith.  Put  the  General  in  that  end 
stall,  away  from  the  others." 

The  next  morning  Gabe  sent  one  of  the  stable 
hands  to  get  his  colt,  and  when  the  animal  ap- 
peared the  old  trainer's  lower  lip  began  to 
droop,  but  he  said  nothing  until  after  he  had 
[253] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


present  occupation  seem  all  the  stranger  by 
contrast. 

Some  of  the  horsemen  of  the  Jungle  Circuit 
pretended  to  believe  that  Pitkin  kept  a  negro 
trainer  because  he  was  too  mean  to  get  along 
with  a  white  man,  but  this  was  only  partly  true. 
He  kept  Gabe  because  he  had  a  keen  apprecia- 
tion of  the  old  man's  knowledge  of  horseflesh, 
and  in  addition  to  this  Gabe  was  cheap  at  the 
price — fifty  dollars  a  month  and  his  board,  and 
only  part  of  that  fifty  paid,  for  it  hurt  Pitkin 
to  part  with  money  under  any  circumstances. 

It  was  by  skipping  pay  days  that  he  came  to 
owe  Uncle  Gabe  the  not  unimportant  sum  of  five 
hundred  dollars,  and  it  was  by  trying  to  col- 
lect this  amount  that  the  aged  trainer  became 
also  the  owner  of  a  race  horse. 

Pitkin,  in  the  course  of  business  dealings 
with  a  small  breeding  farm,  had  picked  up  two 
bay  colts.  They  were  as  like  as  two  peas  with 
every  honest  right  to  the  resemblance,  for  they 
were  half-brothers  by  the  same  sire,  and  there 
was  barely  a  week's  difference  in  their  ages. 
Uncle  Gabe  looked  the  baby  racers  over  very 
carefully  before  giving  it  as  his  opinion  that 
no  twins  were  ever  more  alike  in  appearance. 

"They  own  mammies  would  have  a  lil 
trouble  tellin'  them  colts  apaht,"  said  the  ne- 
gro. 

"Can  you  tell  them  apart!"  asked  Pitkin. 

Gabe  grinned.  "Yes,  suh,"  he  answered. 
* '  They  is  a  difference. ' ' 

[252] 


THE   MODERN    JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

Pitkin  looked  at  Gabe  sharply.  He  knew  that 
the  old  negro  felt  one  colt  to  be  better  than  the 
other. 

"All  right  then/'  he  said  after  a  moment. 
"Tell  you  what  I'll  do.  YouVe  been  deviling 
me  for  that  five  hundred  dollars  till  I'm  sick 
of  listening  to  you.  Take  your  pick  of  the  two 
colts  and  call  it  square.  How  does  that  strike 
you?" 

Uncle  Gabe  deliberated  for  some  time.  The 
five  hundred  dollars  meant  a  great  deal  to  him, 
but  the  cash  value  of  a  debt  is  regulated  some- 
what by  the  sort  of  man  who  owes  it  and  Gabe 
realized  that  this  point  was  worthy  of  consid- 
eration. On  the  other  hand,  should  the  colt 
turn  out  well,  he  would  be  worth  several  times 
five  hundred  dollars. 

"Don't  wait  till  you  get  'em  in  training, " 
said  Pitkin.  "A  blind  man  could  pick  the  best 
one  then.  Take  the  colt  that  looks  good  to  you 
now  and  let  it  go  at  that. ' ' 

That  evening  Uncle  Gabe  made  his  selection 
and  immediately  announced  that  he  intended 
to  name  his  colt  General  Duval. 

"Good  enough,"  said  Pitkin,  "and  just  to 
carry  out  the  soldier  idea,  I'll  call  the  other  one 
Sergeant  Smith.  Put  the  General  in  that  end 
stall,  away  from  the  others." 

The  next  morning  Gabe  sent  one  of  the  stable 
hands  to  get  his  colt,  and  when  the  animal  ap- 
peared the  old  trainer's  lower  lip  began  to 
droop,  but  he  said  nothing  until  after  he  had 
[253] 


OLD   MAN    CUKRY 


made  a  thorough  examination.  ' t  Boy,  you  done 
brought  me  the  wrong  colt,"  said  he.  "This 
ain't  Gen 'alDuval." 

"I  got  him  outen  yo'  stall,"  said  the  stable 
hand. 

"Don't  care  where  yo'  got  him,"  persisted 
Gabe.  "This  ain't  the  colt  I  picked  out.  He 
ain't  wide  enough  between  the  eyes." 

"What's  the  argument  about?"  asked  Pitkin, 
coming  from  the  tackle-room. 

"Gabe  say  thisyer  ain't  his  colt,"  answered 
the  stable  hand. 

"Where  did  you  get  him!"  demanded  Pit- 
kin. 

"Outen  that  stall  yondeh,"  said  the  stable 
hand,  pointing. 

"That  was  where  you  put  your  colt,  wasn't 
it?"  asked  Pitkin,  turning  to  Uncle  Gabe. 

"Yes,  suh,  I  put  him  there  all  right,  but  this 
ain't  him." 

"Oh,  come  now,"  laughed  Pitkin,  "you've 
been  thinking  it  over  and  you're  afraid  you've 
picked  the  wrong  one.  Be  a  sport,  Gabe ;  stick 
with  your  bargain." 

"Been  some  monkey  business  done  round 
yere,"  muttered  the  aged  negro.  "Been  a  li'l 
night  walkin',  mebbe.  Boy,  bring  out  that 
Sergeant  Smith  colt  an'  lemme  cas'  my  eye 
oveh  him  once ! ' ' 

"See  here,  nigger!"  said  Pitkin,  "I  let  you 
have  first  pick,  didn't  I?  Gave  you  all  the 
best  of  it,  and  you  picked  this  colt  here.  If 
[254] 


THE   MODERN   JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

you've  changed  your  mind  overnight,  I  can't 
help  that,  can  I?" 

"My  mind  ain't  changed  none,"  replied  old 
Gabe,  "but  this  colt,  he's  changed,  suh." 

"Who  would  change  him  on  you,  ehf  Do 
you  think  I'd  do  it?  Is  that  what  you're  get- 
ting at?" 

"Why — why,  no  suh,  no,  but " 

' '  Then  shut  up !  You  're  always  beefing  about 
something  or  other,  always  kicking!  I  don't 
want  to  hear  any  more  out  of  you,  understand? 
Shut  up!" 

"Yes,  suh,"  answered  old  Gabe,  touching  his 
hat,  "all  the  same  I  got  a  right  to  my  opinion, 
boss." 

Whatever  his  opinion,  Gabe  proceeded  to 
train  the  two  colts  in  the  usual  manner,  and  be- 
fore long  it  was  plain  to  everyone  connected 
with  the  Pitkin  establishment  that  the  striking 
likeness  did  not  extend  to  track  promise  and 
performance.  Sergeant  Smith  developed  into 
a  high-class  piece  of  racing  property;  General 
Duval  was  not  worth  his  oats.  Sergeant  Smith 
won  some  baby  races  in  impressive  fashion  and 
was  immediately  tabbed  as  a  comer  and  a  use- 
ful betting  tool,  but  every  time  General  Duval 
carried  the  racing  colours  of  Gabriel  Johnson — 
cherry  jacket,  green  sleeves,  red,  white  and  blue 
cap — he  brought  them  home  powdered  with  the 
dust  of  defeat. 

Old  Gabe  made  several  ineffectual  attempts 
to  persuade  Pitkin  to  take  the  colt  back  again 
[255] 


OLD    MAN    CUEKY 


on  any  terms,  and  was  laughed  at  for  his  pains. 

"You  had  your  choice,  didn't  you?"  Pitkin 
would  say.  "Well,  then,  you  can't  blame  any- 
body but  yourself.  Whose  fault  is  it  that  I  got 
the  good  colt  and  you  got  the  crab!  No,  Gabe, 
a  bargain's  a  bargain  with  me,  always.  The 
General's  a  rotten  bad  race  horse,  but  he's 
yours  and  not  mine.  It's  what  you  get  for  be- 
ing a  poor  picker." 

The  bay  colts  were  nearing  the  end  of  their 
three-year-old  form  when  the  Pitkin  string  ar- 
rived on  the  Jungle  Circuit  and  took  up  quar- 
ters next  door  to  Old  Man  Curry  and  his  "Bible 
horses."  Sergeant  Smith  was  the  star  of  the 
stable  and  the  principal  money  winner,  when 
it  suited  Pitkin  to  let  him  run  for  the  money, 
while  General  Duval,  as  like  his  half  brother  as 
a  reflection  in  a  flawless  mirror,  had  a  string  of 
defeats  to  his  discredit  and  his  feed  bill  was 
breaking  old  Gabe's  heart.  The  trainer  often 
looked  at  General  Duval  and  shook  his  head. 

"You  an'  that  otheh  colt  could  tell  me  some- 
thin'  if  yo'  could  talk,"  he  frequently  remarked. 

After  his  conversation  with  Old  Man  Curry, 
Pitkin  returned  to  his  tackle-room  in  a  savage 
state  of  mind,  and,  needing  a  target  for  his 
abuse,  selected  Mulligan,  the  Irish  jockey. 

Now,  Mulligan  was  small,  but  he  had  the 
heart  of  a  giant  and  the  courage  of  one  convic- 
tion and  two  acquittals  on  charges  of  assault 
and  battery.  In  spite  of  his  size — he  could 
ride  at  ninety-eight  pounds — Mulligan  was  a 
[256] 


THE   MODEKN   JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

man  in  years,  a  man  who  felt  that  his  employer 
had  treated  him  like  a  child  in  money  matters, 
and  when  Pitkin  called  him  a  bow-legged  little 
thief  and  an  Irish  ape,  he  was  putting  a  match 
to  a  powder  magazine. 

One  retort  led  to  another,  and  when  Mulli- 
gan ran  out  of  retorts  he  responded  with  a 
piece  of  2  by  4  scantling  which  he  had  been 
saving  for  just  such  an  emergency,  and  Pitkin 
lost  interest  in  the  conversation. 

Mulligan  left  him  lying  on  the  floor  of  the 
tackle-room,  and  though  he  was  in  somewhat 
of  a  hurry  to  be  gone  he  found  time  to  say  a 
few  words  to  old  Gabe,  who  was  sunning  him- 
self at  the  end  of  the  barn. 

"And  I  don't  know  what  you  can  do  about 
it,"  concluded  the  jockey,  "but  anyway  IVe 
put  you  wise.  If  they  ask  you,  just  say  that  you 
don't  know  which  way  I  went." 

That  night  Old  Man  Curry  had  a  visitor  who 
entered  his  tackle-room,  hat  in  hand  and  bow- 
ing low. 

"Set  down,  Gabe,"  said  the  old  horseman. 
"How's  Pitkin  by  this  time?" 

"He  got  a  headache,"  answered  Gabe  so-? 
berly. 

"Humph!"  snorted  Curry.  "Should  think 
he  would  have.  That  boy  fetched  him  a  pretty 
solid  lick.  Glad  he  didn't  hurt  him  any  worse 
— for  the  boy's  sake,  I  mean." 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Gabe.  "Mist'  Curry,  you 
[257] 


OLD   MAN    CUKEY 


been  mighty  good  to  me,  one  way'n  anotheh, 
an'  I'd  like  to  ast  yo'  fo'  some  advice." 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "advice  is  like 
medicine,  Gabe — easy  to  give  but  hard  to  take. 
What's  troublin'  you  now?" 

"Mist'  Curry,  yo'  'membeh  me  tellin'  yo' 
'bout  that  Gen'al  Duval  colt  of  mine — how  he 
neveh  did  look  the  same  to  me  since  I  got  him?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Curry,  "an'  I've  a 'ready 
told  you  that  you  can't  prove  anything  on  Pit- 
kin.  You  may  suspect  that  somebody  switched 
them  colts  on  you,  but  unless " 

"  'Scuse  me,  suh,"  interrupted  Gabe,  "but 
I  got  bey  on'  suspectin'  it  now.  I  knows  it  was 
done." 

"You  don't  say!" 

"Yes,  suh,  I  got  the  proof.  Mulligan,  he  say 
to  me  jus'  befo'  he  lights  out,  'Gabe,'  he  say, 
'that  Smith  colt,  he  belong  to  you  by  rights. 
Pitkin,  he  pulls  a  switch  afteh  yo'  went  to  bed 
that  first  night.'  He  say  he  seen  him  do  it." 

"Mebbe  the  boy  was  just  tryin'  to  stir  up  a 
little  more  trouble, ' '  suggested  Old  Man  Curry. 

"Ain't  I  tol'  you  he  neveh  did  look  the  same? 
Them  colts  so  much  alike  they  had  me  guessin'. 
I  done  picked  the  one  whut  was  widest  between 
the  eyes — an'  that's  the  one  whut  been  awinnin' 
all  them  races.  That  ain't  Sergeant  Smith  at 
all — that's  my  Gen'al  Duval.  Pitkin,  he  gives 
me  my  pick  an'  then  he  switches  on  me.  Ques- 
tion is,  how  kin  I  git  him  backf  " 
[258] 


THE   MODEKN   JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

Old  Man  Curry  combed  his  whiskers  for  some 
time  in  silence. 

"Solomon  had  a  job  like  this  once,"  said  he, 
"but  it  was  a  question  of  babies.  I  reckon  his 
decision  wouldn't  work  out  with  bosses.  Gabe, 
you're  gittin'  to  be  quite  an  old  man,  ain't 
you?" 

"Tollable  ole,"  replied  the  negro;  "yes, 
suh." 

"An'  if  you  got  this  hoss  away  from  Pitkin, 
what  would  you  do  with  him?" 

"Sell  him,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"Oho!  Then  it  ain't  the  hoss  you  want  so 
much  as  the  money,  eh?" 

"Mist'  Curry,  that  colt'd  fetch  enough  to 
sen'  me  home  right.  I  got  two  sons  in  Baltimo', 
an'  they  been  wantin'  me  to  quit  the  racin' 
business,  but  I  couldn't  quit  it  broke.  No,  suh, 
I  couldn't,  so  I  jus'  been  hangin'  on  tooth  an' 
toenail  like  the  sayin'  is,  hopin'  I'd  git  a  stake 
somehow. ' ' 

"And  you  don't  much  care  how  you  quit,  so 
long's  you  quit;  is  that  it?" 

"Well,  suh,  I  don't  want  no  trouble  if  I  kin 
he  'p  it,  but  if  I  has  to  fight  my  way  loose  from 
Pitkin  I'll  do  it." 

There  was  another  long  silence  while  Gabe 
waited. 

"I  reckon  Solomon  would  have  his  hands 

full  straightenin'  out  this  tangle,"  said  Old 

Man  Curry  at  last.    "You  can't  break  into  the 

stall  an*  take  that  hoss  away  from  Pitkin,  be- 

[259] 


OLD    MAN    CUKEY 


cause  he'd  have  you  arrested.  And  then,  of 
course,  he's  got  him  registered  in  his  name  an* 
runnin'  in  his  colours — that's  another  thing 
we've  got  to  take  into  consideration.  I  reckon 
we  better  set  quiet  a  few  days  an'  study.  You'll 
know  whenever  this  Sergeant  hoss  is  entered  in 
a  race,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  suh;  I'm  boun'  to  know  ahead  o'  time, 
suh." 

"All  right.  Go  on  back  to  work  an'  don't 
quarrel  with  Pitkin.  Don't  let  him  know  that 
you've  found  out  anything,  an'  keep  me  posted 
on  Sergeant  Smith.  Might  be  a  good  thing  if 
we  knew  when  Pitkin  is  goin'  to  bet  on  him. 
He's  been  cheatin'  with  that  hoss  lately." 

"He's  always  cheatin',  suh.  Yo' — yo'  think 
they's  a  way  to — to " 

"There's  always  a  way,  Gabe,"  answered 
Old  Man  Curry.  "The  main  thing  is  to  find 
it." 

"That's  my  hoss  by  right,"  said  the  negro, 
with  a  trace  of  stubbornness  in  his  tone. 

"An'  the  world  is  your  oyster,"  responded 
Curry,  "but  you  can't  go  bustin'  into  it  with 
dynamite.  You  got  to  open  an  oyster,  careful. 
Now  go  on  back  to  your  barn  and  do  as  I  tell 
you.  Understand?" 

"Yes,  suh,  an'  thank  yo'  kin'ly,  suh." 

Pitkin 's  bandaged  head  brought  him  little 

sympathy — in  fact,  the  general  opinion  seemed 

to  be  that  Mulligan  had  not  hit  him  quite  hard 

enough  to  do  the  community  any  good.     Cer- 

[260] 


THE    MODERN   JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

tainly  the  scantling  did  not  improve  his  tem- 
per, and  Pitkin  made  life  a  burden  to  old  Gabe 
and  the  two  black  stable  hands.  Gabe  swal- 
lowed the  abuse  with  a  patient  smile,  but  the 
two  roustabouts  muttered  to  themselves  and 
eyed  their  employer  with  malevolence.  They 
had  also  been  missing  pay  days. 

One  evening  Pitkin  stuck  his  head  out  of  the 
door  of  the  tackle-room  and  called  for  his 
trainer. 

t '  Gabe !  Oh,  Gabe !  Now  where  is  that  good- 
for-nothing  old  nigger?" 

"Comin',  suh,  comin',"  answered  Gabe, 
shuffling  along  the  line  of  stalls.  "Yo'  want 
to  see  me,  boss?" 

"Shut  the  door  behind  you,"  growled  Pit- 
kin.  "I  was  thinking  it  was  about  time  we  cut 
this  Sergeant  Smith  colt  loose." 

"Yes,  suh,"  answered  Gabe.  "He's  ready 
to  go,  boss." 

"How  good  is  he?"  demanded  Pitkin. 

"Well,  suh,"  replied  Gabe,  "he's  a  heap 
better'n  whut  he's  been  showin'  lately;  that's 
a  fact." 

"Can  he  beat  horses  like  Galloway  and 
Hartshorn?" 

"He  kin  if  he  gits  a  chance." 

"How  do  you  mean,  a  chance?" 

"Well,  suh,  if  he  gits  a  good,  hones'  ride,  fo' 
one  thing.    He  been  messed  all  oveh  the  race 
track  las'  few  times  out." 
[261] 


OLD   MAN    CUBBY 


"But  with  a  good  ride  you  think  he  can 
win?" 

* '  Humph ! ' '  sniffed  Gabe.  * '  He  leave  'em  like 
they  standin'  still !" 

"I  want  to  slip  him  into  the  fourth  race  next 
Saturday,"  said  Pitkin,  "and  he'll  have  Gallo- 
way and  Hartshorn  to  beat.  There  ought  to  be 
a  nice  price  on  him — 4  or  5  to  1,  anyway,  on  ac- 
count of  what  he's  been  showing  lately." 

"Yo'  goin'  bet  on  him,  suh?" 

"Straight  and  place,"  said  Pitkin,  "but  I 
won't  bet  a  nickel  here  at  the  track.  They'll 
be  asking  you  about  the  colt  and  trying  to  get 
a  line  on  him.  You  tell  'em  that  I'm  starting 
him  a  little  bit  out  of  his  class  just  to  see  if 
he's  game — any  lie  will  do.  And  if  they  ask 
you  about  the  stable  money,  we're  not  playing 
him  this  time." 

"Yes,  suh." 

"You're  absolutely  sure  he's  ready?" 

"Beady?  Why,  boss,  ain't  yo'  been  watchin' 
the  way  that  colt  is  workin'?  Yo'  kin  bet  'em 
till  they  quits  takin'  it  an'  not  be  scared." 

"That's  all  I  want  to  know,  Gabe,  and  mind 
what  I  told  you  about  keeping  that  big  mouth 
of  yours  shut.  If  I  hear  of  any  talk " 

"I  ain't  neveh  talked  yit,  has  I?" 

"Well,  don't  pick  this  time  to  start;  that's 
all."  j 

That  night  the  lights  burned  late  in  two 
tackle-rooms.  In  one  of  them  Old  Man  Curry 
was  bringing  the  judgment  of  Solomon  down  to 
[262] 


THE   MODEBN   JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

date  and  fitting  it  to  turf  conditions;  in  the 
other  Henry  M.  Pitkinwas  preparing  code  tele- 
grams to  certain  business  associates  in  Seattle, 
Portland,  Butte,  and  San  Francisco,  for  this 
was  in  the  unregenerate  days  when  pool  rooms 
operated  more  or  less  openly  in  the  West.  Mr. 
Pitkin  was  getting  ready  for  the  annual  clean- 
up. 

The  next  morning  he  was  on  hand  early 
enough  to  see  General  Duval  return  from  an 
exercise  gallop,  and  there  was  a  small  black 
boy  on  the  colt's  back. 

' '  Come  here,  Gabe,"  said  Pitkin.  " Ain't 
that  Curry's  nigger  jockey?" 

"Yes,  suh;  that's  Jockey  Moseby  Jones, 
suh." 

"What's  he  doing  around  this  stable?" 

"He  kind  o'  gittin'  acquainted  with  the  Gen'- 
al  suh. '  * 

"Acquainted ?    What  f or ? " 

"Well,  suh,  they's  a  maiden  race  nex'  Sat- 
u'day,  an'  I  was  thinkin'  mebbe  the  Gen'al 
could  win  it  if  he  gits  a  good  ride.  Jockey 
Jones  didn't  have  no  otheh  engagement,  suh, 
so  I  done  hired  him  fo'  the  'casion." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you?  Now  listen  to  me, 
Gabe:  I  don't  want  anybody  from  the  Curry 
stable  hanging  around  this  place.  Chances  are 
this  little  nigger  will  be  trying  to  pick  up  an 
earful  to  carry  back  to  his  boss,  the  psalm- 
singing  old  hypocrite!  If  Curry  should  find 
out  we're  leveling  with  Sergeant  Smith  next 
[263] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


Saturday,  he  might  go  into  the  ring  and  hurt 
the  price.  I  can't  stop  you  putting  the  little 
nigger  on  your  own  horse,  but  if  he  tries  to 
make  my  barn  a  hangout,  111  warm  his  jacket 
for  him,  understand?  You  can  tell  him  so." 

"Yes,  suh,"  answered  Gabe  meekly.  "Mist' 
Curry  an'  yo'  bad  friends,  boss?" 

"We  ain't  any  kind  of  friends,"  snapped  Pit- 
kin,  "and  that  goes  for  every  blackbird  that 
eats  out  of  his  hand  I" 

"I  thought  he  was  a  kin'  o'  pious  ole  gen- 
tleman," said  Gabe. 

"He's  got  a  lot  of  people  fooled,  Curry  has," 
replied  Pitkin  with  unnecessary  profanity, 
"but  I've  had  his  number  right  along.  He's 
a  crook,  but  he  gets  away  with  it  on  account 
of  that  long-tailed  coat — the  sanctimonious  old 
scoundrel!  Don't  you  have  anything  to  do 
with  him,  Gabe." 

"Me?"  said  Gabe  professing  mild  astonish- 
ment. "Humph!  I  reckon  not!" 

"Always  stick  with  your  friends,"  said  Pit- 
kin,  "and  remember  which  side  your  bread  is 
buttered  on." 

"That's  whut  I'm  aimin'  to  do,  suh.  Yo' 
know,  boss,  I  sort  o'  figgeh  the  Gen'al's  got  a 
mighty  good  chance  nex'  Satu'day  in  that 
secon'  race.  A  mighty  good  chance." 

Pitkin  sneered.  "Going  to  bet  on  him,  are 
you?" 

"No,  suh;  not  'less  some  people  pay  me  whut 
they  owes  me." 

[264] 


THE    MODERN    JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

" You'd  only  blow  it  in  if  you  had  it,"  replied 
Pitkin.  "The  General's  a  darn  bad  race  horse 
— always  was  and  always  will  be." 

"They  ain't  nothin'  in  that  race  fV  him  to 
beat,"  responded  Gabe. 

"He's  never  had  anything  to  beat  yet,"  said 
Pitkin,  "and  he's  still  a  maiden,  ain't  he?  Bet- 
ter let  him  run  for  the  purse,  Gabe.  Playing  a 
horse  like  that  is  just  throwing  good  money 
after  bad." 

"Mebbe  yo'  right,  boss,"  answered  the  old 
negro.  "Mebbe  yo'  right,  but  I  still  thinks 
he's  got  a  chance." 

Now,  in  a  maiden  race  every  horse  is  sup- 
posed to  have  a  chance,  not  a  particularly  ro- 
bust one,  of  course,  but  still  a  chance.  The 
maidens  are  the  horses  which  have  never  won 
a  race,  and  every  jungle  circuit  is  well  sup- 
plied with  these  equine  misfits.  They  gradu- 
ate, one  at  a  time,  from  their  lowly  state,  and 
the  owner  is  indeed  fortunate  who  wins  enough 
to  cover  the  cost  of  probation.  The  betting  on 
a  maiden  race  is  seldom  heavy,  but  always  spo- 
radic enough  to  prove  the  truth  of  the  old  saw 
about  the  hope  which  springs  eternal. 

Saturday's  maiden  race  was  no  exception. 
There  was  a  sizzling  paddock  tip  on  The  Crick- 
et, a  nervous  brown  mare  which  had  twice  fin- 
ished second  at  the  meeting,  the  last  time  miss- 
ing her  graduation  by  a  nose ;  others  had  heard 
that  Athelstan  was  "trying";  there  was  a  ru- 
mour that  Laredo  was  about  to  annex  his  first 
[265] 


OLD   MAN    CUKKY 


brackets;  suspicion  pointed  to  Miller  Boy  as 
likely  to  "do  something,"  but  nobody  had 
heard  any  good  news  of  General  Duval.  Those 
who  looked  him  up  in  the  form  charts  found 
his  previous  races  sufficiently  disgraceful. 

The  Cricket  opened  favourite  at  8  to  5,  and 
when  her  owner  heard  this  he  grunted  deep 
and  soulfully  and  swore  by  all  his  gods  that 
the  price  was  too  short  and  the  mare  a  false 
favourite.  He  had  hoped  for  not  less  than  4 
to  1,  in  which  case  he  would  have  sent  the  mare 
out  to  win,  carrying  a  few  hundred  dollars  of 
ill-gotten  gains  as  wagers,  but  at  8  to  5  tickets 
on  The  Cricket  had  no  value  save  as  souvenirs 
of  a  sad  occasion. 

Nobody  bothered  about  General  Duval;  no- 
body questioned  old  Gabe  as  he  led  a  blanketed 
horse  round  and  round  the  paddock  stalls.  Old 
Man  Curry  sat  on  the  fence,  thoughtfully  chew- 
ing fine-cut  tobacco  and  seemingly  taking  no 
interest  in  his  surroundings,  but  he  saw  Pit- 
kin  as  soon  as  that  fox-faced  gentleman  en- 
tered the  paddock,  and  thereafter  he  watched 
the  disciple  of  the  double-cross  closely.  It  was 
plain  that  Pitkin's  visit  had  no  business  signifi- 
cance; he  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  play  a 
maiden  race,  and  after  a  few  bantering  remarks 
addressed  to  old  Gabe  he  drifted  back  into  the 
betting  ring,  where  he  made  a  casual  note  of 
the  fact  that  on  most  of  the  slates  General 
Duval  was  quoted  at  40  to  1. 
[266] 


THE    MODERN    JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

"Anybody  betting  on  the  nigger's  skate!" 
asked  Pitkin  of  a  black  man  whom  he  knew. 

"Not  a  soul,"  was  the  reply.  "What  does 
the  old  fool  start  him  for?" 

"Because  that's  what  he  is — an  old  fool," 
answered  Pitkin  briefly  as  he  moved  away. 

When  the  first  bookmaker  chalked  up  50  to  1 
on  the  General,  a  bulky,  flat-footed  negro, 
dressed  in  a  screaming  plaid  suit  with  an  an- 
cient straw  hat  tilted  sportively  over  one  eye, 
fished  a  wrinkled  two-dollar  bill  out  of  his 
vest  pocket,  and  bet  it  on  Gabriel  Johnson's 
horse.  "You  like  that  one,  do  you?"  grinned 
the  bookmaker. 

"No,  suh,  not  'specially,"  chuckled  the  ne- 
gro, "but  I  sutny  likes  that  long  price!" 

Soon  there  was  more  50  to  1  in  sight,  and 
the  flat-footed  negro  began  to  shuffle  about  the 
betting-ring,  bringing  to  light  other  wrinkled 
two-dollar  bills.  The  bookmakers  were  glad  to 
take  in  a  few  dollars  on  General  Duval,  if  for 
no  other  reason  than  to  round  out  their  sheets. 
The  flat-footed  negro  continued  to  bet  until  he 
arrived  at  the  bottom  of  his  vest  pocket,  and 
then  he  began  to  draw  upon  a  fund  concealed 
in  the  fob  pocket  of  his  trousers.  When  the 
first  bugle  call  sounded  he  was  betting  from  the 
right  hip — and  never  more  than  two  dollars  at 
a  time. 

Jockey  Moseby  Jones,  gorgeous  as  a  tropi- 
cal butterfly  in  the  cherry  jacket  with  green 
sleeves  and  the  red,  white  and  blue  cap,  pranced 
[267] 


OLD    MAN    CURRY 


into  General  Duval's  paddock  stall  and  listened 
intently  as  old  Gabe  bent  over  him. 

"Yo'  ain't  fo'got  whut  we  tole  yo'  last  night, 
son?"  asked  Gabe  in  anxious  tones. 

"Ain't  fo'got  nuthin',"  was  the  sober  an- 
swer. 

"  'Cause  everything  'pend  on  how  it  look." 

"Uh  huh,"  replied  little  Mose.  "I  make  it 
look  all  right." 

"This  boss,  he  might  take  a  notion  to  run 
off  an'  leave  'em  soon  as  the  barrier  go  up," 
cautioned  Gabe.  "Keep  him  folded  up  in  yo' 
lap  to  the  las'  minute." 

"An'  then  set  him  down,"  supplemented 
Mose.  "Yo'  jus'  be  watchin'  me,  thass  all!" 

"Lot  of  folks '11  be  watchin'  yo',"  warned 
Gabe.  "Them  judges,  they  goin'  be  watchin' 
yo'.  Eemembeh,  it  got  to  look  right!" 

As  Jockey  Jones  passed  out  of  the  paddock 
he  clucked  to  his  mount  and  glanced  over 
toward  the  fence  where  Old  Man  Curry  was 
still  sitting. 

"Hawss,"  whispered  little  Mose,  "did  yo' 
see  that  ?  The  ole  man  winked  at  us ! " 

There  must  have  been  some  truth  in  the  ru- 
mour concerning  Laredo,  for  he  rushed  to  the 
front  when  the  barrier  rose,  with  Miller  Boy 
and  Athelstan  in  hot  pursuit.  As  for  The 
Cricket,  she  was  all  but  left  at  the  post,  and  her 
owner  remarked  to  himself  that  he'd  teach  'em 
when  to  make  his  mare  a  false  favourite. 

The  three  people  most  interested  in  the  cherry 
[268] 


THE    MODEKN   JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

jacket  with  the  green  sleeves  watched  it  go  bob- 
bing along  the  rail  several  lengths  behind  the 
leaders,  and  were  relieved  to  find  it  there  in- 
stead of  out  in  front.  Had  the  judges  been 
watching  the  bay  colt  they  could  not  have 
helped  noticing  that  his  mouth  was  wide  open, 
due  to  a  powerful  pull  on  the  reins,  and  they 
might  have  drawn  certain  conclusions  from 
this,  but  they  were  watching  The  Cricket  in- 
stead and  mentally  putting  a  rod  in  pickle  for 
the  owner  of  the  favourite. 

Laredo  led  around  the  turn  and  into  the 
stretch  with  Miller  Boy  and  Athelstan  crowd- 
ing him  hard,  but  the  pace  was  beginning  to 
tell  on  the  front  runners,  and  the  rear  guard 
was  closing  in  on  them,  headed  by  the  cherry 
jacket. 

"It's  anybody's  race,"  remarked  the  presid- 
ing judge  as  he  squinted  up  the  stretch.  "Lord, 
what  a  lot  of  beetles!" 

"Yes,  they're  rotten,"  said  the  associate 
judge.  "Laredo's  quitting  already.  Now, 
then,  you  hounds,  come  on!  Whose  turn  is  it 
to-day?" 

The  maidens  came  floundering  down  to  the 
wire  spread  out  like  a  cavalry  charge  and  cov- 
ering half  the  track.  At  the  sixteenth  pole  a 
bold  man  would  have  hesitated  to  pick  the  win- 
ner; indeed,  it  looked  to  be  anybody's  race, 
with  the  sole  exception  of  The  Cricket,  sulking 
far  in  the  rear.  It  was  Gabe  Johnson  who  saw 
that  the  wraps  were  still  about  Mose's  wrists, 
[269] 


OLD   MAN    CURKY 


but  it  was  Old  Man  Curry  who  chuckled  to 
himself  as  the  horses  passed  the  paddock  gate, 
and  it  was  Shanghai,  Curry's  negro  hostler, 
who  began  to  count  tickets  on  General  Duval. 

"The  old  nigger's  horse  is  going  to  be  there 
or  thereabouts  to-day,"  commented  the  presid- 
ing judge.  "Just — about — there — or — there- 
abouts. Keep  your  eye  on  him,  Ed — there  he 
is  on  the  inside.  Darn  these  spread-eagle  fin- 
ishes! They  always  look  bad  from  angle!" 

Thirty  yards  away  from  home  a  single  length 
separated  the  first  five  horses,  and  the  fifth 
horse  carried  the  racing  colours  of  Gabriel 
Johnson.  It  was  cutting  it  fine,  very  fine,  but  lit- 
tle Mose  had  an  excellent  eye  for  distance;  he 
felt  the  strength  of  the  mount  under  him  and 
timed  his  closing  rush  to  the  fraction  of  a  sec- 
ond. Those  who  were  yelling  wildly  for  Athel- 
stan,  Miller  Boy,  and  the  others  saw  a  flash  of 
cherry  jacket  on  the  rail,  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
bullet-headed  little  negro  hurling  himself  for- 
ward in  the  stirrups — and  the  race  was  over. 
Jockey  Moseby  Jones  had  brought  a  despised 
outsider  home  a  winner  by  half  a  length.  There 
was  a  stunned  silence  as  the  numbers  dropped 
into  place,  broken  only  by  one  terrific  whoop 
from  Shanghai,  betting  commissioner. 

"Well,"  said  the  associate  judge,  looking  at 
his  chief,  "what  do  you  make  of  that?  The 
winner  had  a  lot  left,  didn't  he?  Think  the 
old  nigger  has  been  cheating  with  him?" 

The  presiding  judge  rubbed  his  chin. 
[270] 


THE   MODERN   JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

"No-o,  Ed,  I  reckon  not,"  said  he.  "It  was 
a  poor  race,  run  in  slow  time.  And  weVe  got 
to  figure  that  the  change  of  jockeys  would  make 
a  difference;  this  Jones  is  a  better  boy  than 
Duval  is  used  to.  I  reckon  it's  all  right — and 
I'm  glad  the  old  nigger  finally  won  a  race." 

"The  Cricket  would  have  walked  home  if 
she'd  got  away  good,"  said  the  associate  judge. 

"Have  to  look  into  that  business,"  said  the 
other.  "Well,  I'm  glad  the  old  darky  finally 
put  one  over!" 

Many  people  seemed  glad  of  it,  even  Mr.  Pit- 
kin,  who  slapped  Gabe  on  the  back  as  he  led 
the  winner  from  the  ring. 

i  i  Didn  't  see  the  race — I  was  down  getting  an- 
other drink — but  they  tell  me  the  General  just 
lucked  in  on  the  last  jump.  Everything  dead 
in  front  of  him,  eh?" 

"Yes,  suh,"  answered  Gabe,  passing  the  hal- 
ter to  one  of  the  black  stable  hands.  "It  did 
look  like  he  win  lucky,  that's  a  fac'!" 

"Well,  don't  go  to  celebrating  and  overlook 
that  fourth  race!"  ordered  Pitkin.  "No  gin 
now!  You  bring  Sergeant  Smith  over  to  the 
paddock  yourself." 

"Yes,  suh,  boss." 

"And  if  anybody  asks  you  about  him,  he's 
only  in  there  for  a  try  out." 

"Jus'  fo'  a  tryout,  yes,  suh." 

To  such  as  were  simple  enough  to  expect  a 
crooked  man  to  return  straight  answers  to  fool- 
ish questions,  Pitkin  stated  (1)  that  he  was 
[271] 


OLD   MAN    CUBBY 


not  betting  a  plugged  nickel  on  his  colt,  (2) 
that  he  hardly  figured  to  have  a  chance  with 
such  horses  as  Galloway  and  Hartshorn,  (3) 
that  he  might  possibly  be  third  if  he  got  the 
best  of  the  breaks,  and  (4)  that  he  had  lost  his 
regular  jockey  and  was  forced  to  give  the 
mount  to  a  bad  little  boy  about  whom  he  knew 
nothing. 

The  real  truth  he  uncovered  to  Jockey  Shea, 
a  freckled  young  savage  who  had  taken  up  the 
burden  where  Mulligan  laid  it  down. 

"Listen,  kid,  and  don't  make  any  mistakes 
with  this  colt.  I'm  down  on  him  hook,  line,  and 
sinker  to  win  and  place,  so  give  him  a  nice  ride 
and  I'll  declare  you  in  with  a  piece  of  the 
dough.  Eh?  Never  you  mind;  it'll  be  enough. 
Now,  then,  this  is  a  mile  race,  and  Galloway 
will  go  out  in  front — he  always  does.  Lay  in 
behind  him  and  stay  there  till  you  get  to  the 
head  of  the  stretch,  then  shake  up  the  colt  and 
come  on  with  him.  He  can  stand  a  long,  hard 
drive  under  whip  and  spur,  so  give  it  to  him 
good  and  plenty  from  the  quarter  pole  home. 
Don't  try  to  draw  a  close  finish — win  just  as 
far  as  you  can  with  him,  because  Hartshorn 
will  be  coming  from  behind. ' ' 

This  was  the  race  as  programmed ;  this  was 
the  Pitkin  annual  clean-up  as  planned.  Imag- 
ine, then,  Pitkin 's  sheer,  dumb  amazement  at 
the  spectacle  of  Shea,  going  to  the  bat  at  the 
rise  of  the  barrier  in  order  to  keep  his  mount 
within  striking  distance  of  the  tail  end  of  the 
[272] 


THE   MODEKN   JUDGMENT   OF   SOLOMON 

procession !  Imagine  his  wrath  as  the  colt  con- 
tinued to  lag  in  last  place,  losing  ground  in 
spite  of  the  savage  punishment  administered 
by  Shea.  Imagine  his  sensations  when  he 
thought  of  the  Pitkin  bank  roll,  scattered  in  all 
the  pool  rooms  between  Seattle  and  San  Fran- 
cisco, tossed  to  the  winds,  burned  up,  gone  for- 
ever, bet  on  a  colt  that  would  not  or  could  not 
make  a  respectable  fight  for  it ! 

Let  us  drop  the  curtain  over  the  rest  of  the 
race— Hartshorn  won  it  in  a  neck-and-neck 
drive  with  Galloway  just  as  Shea  was  flogging 
the  bay  colt  past  the  sixteenth  pole — and  we 
will  lift  the  curtain  again  at  the  point  where 
the  judges  summoned  Pitkin  into  the  stand  to 
ask  him  for  an  explanation  of  Sergeant  Smith's 
pitiful  showing. 

"Now,  sir,"  said  the  presiding  judge ;  "we've 
been  pretty  lenient  with  you,  Mr.  Pitkin.  We've 
overlooked  a  lot  of  things  that  we  didn't  like — • 
a  lot  of  things.  I  figured  this  colt  to  have  a 
fair  chance  to  win  to-day,  or  be  in  the  money  at 
least.  He  ran  like  a  cow.  How  do  you  account 
for  that!" 

"Why,  judges,"  stammered  Pitkin,  "I— I 
don't  account  for  it.  I  can't  account  for  it. 
The  colt's  been  working  good,  and — and " 

"And  you  thought  he  had  a  chance,  did  you?" 

"Why  sure,  judges,  and  I " 

"Well,  then,  why  did  you  tell  your  friends 
that  the  colt  was  only  in  for  a  tryout?  How 
about  that?" 

[273] 


OLD   MAN    CURRY 


"I — I  didn't  want  'em  spoiling  the  price,  I 
mean,  judges;  I  didn't  think  it  was  anybody's 
business." 

"Oh,  so  you  bet  on  him,  did  you?  Let's  see 
the  tickets." 

And  of  course  Mr.  Pitkin  had  no  tickets  to 
show.  He  offered  to  produce  copies  of  tele- 
grams, but  the  judges  had  him  exactly  where 
they  had  been  wanting  to  get  him  and  they  gave 
him  a  very  unhappy  ten  minutes.  At  the  end 
of  this  period  the  presiding  judge  cleared  his 
throat  and  pronounced  sentence.  "Your  en- 
tries are  refused  from  now  on,  and  you  are 
warned  off  this  track.  Take  your  horses  some- 
where else,  sir,  and  don't  ever  bring  'em  back 
here.  That's  all." 

To  Pitkin  it  seemed  enough. 

He  walked  down  the  steps  in  a  daze  and  wan- 
dered away  in  the  general  direction  of  his 
stable.  He  was  still  in  a  daze  when  he  reached 
his  destination,  and  the  first  thing  he  saw  was 
old  Gabe,  his  coat  on  and  a  satchel  in  his  hand. 

"Oh,  you've  heard  about  it  already,  have 
you?"  asked  Pitkin  dully. 

' '  Heard  whut  ? ' '  And  Gabe  did  not  touch  the 
brim  of  his  hat. 

"We've  got  the  gate — been  warned  off:  en- 
tries refused." 

'  *  Glory ! ' '  ejaculated  the  aged  trainer.  '  '  Time 
they  was  gittin'  onto  you!" 

"What's  that?"  shouted  Pitkin.    "Why,  you 

black  hound,  I'll " 

[274] 


THE   MODEKN   JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

"Yo'  won't  do  nuthin'!"  said  Gabe  stoutly. 
"Pitkin,  yo'  an'  me  is  through;  yo'  an'  me  is 
done!  Yo'  made  me  all  the  trouble  yo'  eveh 
goin'  make.  Nex'  time  they  ketches  yo'  cheat- 
in'  on  a  race  track  I  hopes  they  shoot  yo'  head 
off!" 

Old  Gabe  walked  away  toward  the  Curry 
barn,  and  all  Pitkin  could  do  was  stare  after 
him.  Then  he  sat  down  on  a  bale  of  hay  and 
took  stock  of  his  misfortunes. 

"I  reckon  everything's  all  right,  Gabe,"  said 
Old  Man  Curry,  who  was  counting  money  in 
his  tackle-room.  "It  was  sort  o'  risky.  When 
a  man  can't  tell  his  own  hoss  when  he  sees  him, 
anything  is  liable  to  happen  to  him  on  a  bush 
track.  I've  just  cut  this  bank  roll  in  two,  Gabe, 
and  here's  your  bit.  Shanghai's  a  good  bettin' 
commissioner,  eh?" 

Old  Gabe's  eyes  bulged  as  he  contemplated 
the  size  of  his  fortune. 

"All  this,  suh— mineT' 

"All  yours — an'  you  better  not  miss  that  six 
o'clock  train.  Never  can  tell  what '11  happen, 
you  know,  Gabe.  Pitkin  will  keep  General  Du- 
val,  I  reckon?" 

Gabe  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"I  fo'got  to  tell  him  so,"  he  chuckled,  "but 
he  got  both  them  bosses  now.  Mist'  Curry, 
whut  yo'  reckon  Sol'mun  would  say  'bout  us?" 

"  "The  Lord  will  not  suffer  the  soul  of  the 
righteous  to  famish,'  "  quoted  the  horseman, 
[275] 


OLD   MAN    CUEKY 


"  'but  he  casteth  away  the  substance  of  the 
wicked.'  " 

"A-a-men!"  said  old  Gabe.  "An*  a  fine  job 
o*  castin'  away  been  done  this  eveninM  Mist' 
Curry,  I'm  quit  hoss  racin'  now,  but  yo'  the 
whites'  man  I  met  in  all  my  time." 

"Go  'way  with  you!"  laughed  Curry. 

It  was  one  of  the  black  stable  hands  who  re- 
called Pitkin  to  a  sense  of  his  responsibilities. 
The  roustabout  approached,  leading  a  bay  colt. 

"Boss,  is  Gabe  done  quit  us!" 

"Huh?"  grunted  Pitkin,  emerging  from  a 
deep-brown  study.  "Yes,  he's  gone,  confound 
him!" 

"Well,  he  lef '  thisyer  Gen'al  Duval  hoss  be- 
hin'  him.  The  Gen'al's  cooled  out  now;  whut 
you  want  me  to  do  with  him?" 

"Put  him  in  his  stall,"  mumbled  Pitkin. 
"To-morrow  I'll  see  if  I  can  get  rid  of  him." 

It  is  a  very  stupid  race  horse  which  does  not 
know  its  own  stall.  The  stable  hand  released 
his  hold  on  the  halter  and  slapped  the  colt's 
flank. 

"G'long  with  yo'!"  said  he. 

Then,  and  not  until  then,  did  Henry  M.  Pit- 
kin  begin  to  estimate  his  misfortune  correctly, 
for  the  bay  colt  which  had  won  the  maiden  race 
in  the  name  of  General  Duval  and  carried  the 
racing  colours  of  Gabriel  Johnson  to  their  first 
and  only  victory  marched  straight  into  Ser- 
geant Smith's  stall  and  thrust  his  muzzle  into 
Sergeant  Smith's  feed  box! 
[276] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


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3  2106  00215   1626 


